Spectacle and Public Performance in the Late Middle Ages and the Renaissance

SPECTACLE AND PUBLIC PERFORMANCE IN THE LATE MIDDLE AGES AND THE RENAISSANCE

STUDIES IN MEDIEVAL AND REFORMATION TRADITIONS History, Culture, Religion, Ideas FOUNDED BY HEIKO A. OBERMAN † EDITED BY

ANDREW COLIN GOW, Edmonton, Alberta IN COOPERATION WITH THOMAS A. BRADY, Jr., Berkeley, California JOHANNES FRIED, Frankfurt BRAD GREGORY, University of Notre Dame, Indiana BERNDT HAMM, Erlangen SUSAN C. KARANT-NUNN, Tucson, Arizona JÜRGEN MIETHKE, Heidelberg M. E. H. NICOLETTE MOUT, Leiden GUSTAV HENNINGSEN, Copenhagen

VOLUME CXIII ROBERT E. STILLMAN (ED.)

SPECTACLE AND PUBLIC PERFORMANCE IN THE LATE MIDDLE AGES AND THE RENAISSANCE

SPECTACLE AND PUBLIC PERFORMANCE IN THE LATE MIDDLE AGES AND THE RENAISSANCE EDITED BY

ROBERT E. STILLMAN

BRILL LEIDEN • BOSTON 2006

Cover illustration: Queen Elizabeth I processing into London the day before her Coronation in 1559. By permission of the College of Arms, MS. M.6., f. 41v.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data University of Tennessee, Knoxville. Marco Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Studies. Symposium (3rd : 2004) Spectacle and public performance in the late Middle Ages and the Renaissance / edited by Robert Stillman. p. cm. — (Studies in medieval and Reformation traditions, ISSN 1573-4188 ; v. 113) Papers from the 3rd annual symposium of the Marco Institute held in spring, 2004, at the University of Tennessee. ISBN 90-04-14928-7 (alk. paper) 1. English drama—Early modern and Elizabethan, 1500-1600—History and criticism— Congresses. 2. Pageants in literature—Congresses. 3. English drama—17th century— History and criticism—Congresses. 4. Theater—England—History—16th century— Congresses. 5. Theater—England—History—17th century—Congresses. I. Title. II. Series. PR658.P25U55 2006 822’.3093579—dc22 2005058258

ISSN 1573-4188 ISBN 90 04 14928 7 © Copyright 2006 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill Academic Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Brill provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910 Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change printed in the netherlands

To Sam and Alex “They were train’d together in their childhoods; and there rooted betwixt them then such an affection which cannot choose but branch now.” William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

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Editor’s Foreword ......................................................................

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List of Contributors

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List of Illustrations ...................................................................... xxiii Antichrist on Page and Stage in the Later Middle Ages Richard K. Emmerson ......................................................................

1

Staging Antichrist and the Performance of Miracles Peter Cockett ....................................................................................

31

“Nothing more nedeful”: Politics and the Rhetoric of Accommodation in Elizabeth I’s Coronation Procession Robert E. Stillman ............................................................................

51

Britomart’s Backward Glance in Spenser’s Faerie Queene: Liminal Triumphs/Dark Erotics in Busirane’s Mask of Cupid Tiffany J. Alkan ............................................................................

79

Spectacle and the Fantasy of Immateriality: Authorship and Magic in John a Kent and John a Cumber Nora Johnson .................................................................................. 105 The Play of Voice: Acknowledgment, Knowledge, and Self-Knowledge in Measure for Measure Sarah Beckwith ................................................................................ 121 Spectacle and Equivocation in Macbeth Richard C. McCoy .......................................................................... 145

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Mapping Shakespeare’s Britain Peter Holland .................................................................................... 157 The Absent Triumphator in the 1610 Chester’s Triumph in Honor of Her Prince Robert W. Barrett, Jr. ...................................................................... 183 Have his “carkasse”: The Aftermaths of English Court Masques Tom Bishop .................................................................................. 211 Reading/Genres: On 1630s Masques Lauren Shohet .................................................................................. 231 Index

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Several people deserve thanks for helping to assemble this volume of essays. First, I am grateful to Mr. Robert Yorke, archivist at the College of Arms in London, for his assistance with securing the right to publish the cover image of Queen Elizabeth I’s Coronation procession. I am grateful also for the advice and support of my colleagues at the University of Tennessee Robert Bast and Thomas Heffernan at various stages of this book’s composition. My colleague in the English Department Heather Hirschfeld also deserves acknowledgment because of her kind intervention on my behalf in soliciting several excellent contributions that have made the book considerably more substantive than it could have been without her help. Finally, it is my pleasure to thank my friend Anne Lake Prescott of Barnard College for her assistance in identifying Tiffany Alkan’s essay, and for what Tiffany describes as her unflagging support, patience and care in reading the essay’s several versions. I would like to acknowledge financial support for the publication of this volume from MARCO, the University of Tennessee’s Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, as well as from the University’s Exhibit, Performance, and Publications Fund. I need also to acknowledge with thanks the permission granted by Manchester University Press to publish Peter Holland’s “Mapping Shakespeare’s Britain.”

EDITOR’S FOREWORD

As recently as 1972, it was possible for David M. Bergeron to complain that scholars dismiss the spectacles and public entertainments of early modern England as “scarcely worth the trouble of serious study.”1 Three decades later, the case has altered. Contemporary scholars have turned with increasing historical interest and theoretical sophistication to interrogate—and thereby to trouble—critical assumptions about what constitutes fit matter for “serious study,” as the vast body of early modern entertainments, civic pageants, festival shows, rituals, masques and plays has been enthusiastically embraced and eagerly anatomized to new critical purposes. Scholarship itself has altered greatly during these decades, and with the steady dislocation of traditional notions about the boundaries that distinguish disciplinary pursuits, especially those boundaries once thought to secure, more or less absolutely, the divide between social and political history, on the one hand, and the literary and performing arts, on the other, attention to the spectacles and public entertainments of early modern England has achieved a fascination, even a sense of urgency that earlier scholarship could hardly have anticipated. Such fascination grows partly from what Stephen J. Greenblatt defined for the generation that followed as self-fashioning—especially the politically pointed self-fashioning of elites who dramatize in their infinite variety of public displays those imaginary means by which power seeks to contain and control the always unruly body of the state.2 In the aftermath of the new historicism and the rise of cultural studies, every dramatic performance is an artifact whose making speaks potentially to large concerns about that now familiar triad— gender, race, and class. The new historicism has long ago ceased to be new, but its impact on contemporary critical studies remains arguably strong, even as the need to produce better, more reliable histories

1 Twentieth-Century Criticism of English Masques, Pageants, and Entertainments: 1558–1642 (San Antonio: Trinity University Press, 1972), Introduction, n.p. 2 Renaissance Self-Fashioning: More to Shakespeare (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980).

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has become clear.3 More recently, the fascination with early modern entertainments derives too from the turn toward religion that distinguishes so much academic work in the period, as scholars are discovering in spectacles and public performances ready vehicles for exploring how religious experience—conceived in the full range of its expressions among the culture’s institutions, its codes of behavior, and its structures of belief—is made visible in dramatic displays. Piety is increasingly prominent as a subject of historical interest in relation to political authority, individual agency and subjectivity, and as a dimension of lived experience that merits attention in its own right.4 Increasingly, too, with the rehabilitation of the aesthetic as a category for scholarly inquiry, such entertainments are proving fertile ground for reopening questions about the nature of authorship, generic distinctions among kinds of dramatic entertainments, and the material conditions—the local contexts and conditions of entertainment practices themselves—that shape specific performances in specific times and places.5 Contemporary scholars have turned, then, to the study of the spectacles and public performances in late Medieval and Renaissance England for motives nearly as diverse as those bodies of material that they seek by anatomy to understand. Beyond fascination, the sense of urgency that so often attends these scholarly studies derives arguably from the heterogeneous—even miscegenational—quality of the materials under investigation. By their very nature—whether they emerge as the spectacles crafted by guilds, the cooperatively compiled dramas of professional acting companies, the powerfully encoded products of patronage, or the self-consciously fashioned dramas of the aspiring author, such entertainments are always, as performances that intermingle the visual and the aural, spectacle and music, dance and words, conspicuous illustrations of culture at play in the activities of creating and recreating itself. Conceived by pictorial analogy, such entertainments resemble less

3 See “Introduction: Demanding History” in A New History of Early English Drama, ed. John D. Cox and David Scott Kastan (New York: Columbia University Press, 1997), pp. 1–5. 4 See Debora Kuller Shuger, Habits of Thought in the English Renaissance: Religion, Politics and the Dominant Culture (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997; repr. 1990), pp. 1–16. 5 See, for example, Heather Anne Hirschfeld, Joint Enterprises: Collaborative Drama and the Institutionalization of the English Renaissance Theater (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2004).

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Caravaggio’s luminously present beings who look ready to step live from the canvas than Giuseppe Archimboldo’s factitiously mannered creatures, assembled from the raw materials of nature—vegetables, fish, or stones. Amidst their heterogeneous intermingling of the stuff of culture—song, dance, music, spectacle, and words—we see the “seams” in their making, and experience the promise of discovering (and hence the urgency to discover), as Philip Sidney would write, how and why their makers made them. It is to that promise of discovery that this volume of essays owes its beginnings. In the spring of 2004, a new institute called MARCO (the Medieval and Renaissance Curriculum and Outreach Program at the University of Tennessee) held its third annual symposium on the topic of “Spectacle and Public Performance in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance.” An interdisciplinary collection of major scholars from the United States, Canada, and Great Britain assembled in Knoxville to deliver papers to professors, students, and interested members of the public, and to engage, formally and informally, in discussions both among themselves and with that large and diverse audience. As a creative component of the symposium’s activities, two performances were staged by the University of Toronto’s Poculi Ludique Societas, the Chester Coming of Antichrist and George Peele’s The Old Wives Tale. In turn, the success of those performances helped to swell the size of the audience for the lectures, and to lend to the symposium the feel of a community—not just an academic—event. Many of the papers in this collection are easily recognized as the products of that particular symposium organized for the needs of that particular audience. With an eye toward making the strange familiar, and with the intention of informing students and the public at large, Richard Emmerson’s essay on “Antichrist on Page and Stage in the Later Middle Ages” displays the distinguished scholar working as a distinguished educator, reorganizing large territories of knowledge for fresh explorations in his subject matter. Once again, as the director in charge of staging the Chester Coming of the Antichrist, Peter Cockett writes from the vantage of a performance critic, exploring the challenges of balancing a commitment to historical authenticity with the need for dramatic accessibility. In Richard McCoy’s essay on “Spectacle and Equivocation in Macbeth,” the economy of focus throws into sharp relief for its audience of readers—as it did for its original audience of auditors—the significance of a single “secondary” character (Malcolm) for a reassessment of the tragedy’s

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meaning and power as a public performance. In Peter Holland’s paper on the mapping of Britain in King Lear, early modern cartography supplies a significant storehouse of historical material for illustrating the play’s engagement with issues of nationhood, just as it served as a wonderfully lucid device for illuminating the meaning of that engagement for the audience. In turn, Sarah Beckwith’s playful and provocative engagement with the language of knowledge, self-knowledge and acknowledgment in Measure for Measure recapitulates, as it extends, the clarity of her spoken performance’s intellectual engagement with the text. The essays in this collection do not read as the paradigmatically predictable products of the academic conference, and their freedom from that paradigm is arguably a measure of new strength obtained, at least in part, from heightened accessibility. All of the essays printed here have been revised in light of subsequent rethinking on the part of the authors. Once more, several of the essays in the volume were included by invitation, and such essays have given to the collection a greater range than the limited resources of the symposium could afford, and an opportunity to mingle with the views of the internationally established, diverse perspectives from a greater variety of scholars (some younger, some already established themselves) at work in the area. No volume entitled, Spectacle and Public Performance in the Late Middle Ages and the Renaissance, could pretend to treat comprehensively a body of materials so conspicuously vast and heterogeneous. Rather than efforts to survey the territory, the essays published here are to be understood, by contrast, in the best and original sense of the term as “essays,” as trials, attempts, experiments to open alternative ways of understanding important aspects of that vast corpus of entertainments, mystery plays, civic pageants, courtly masques and professional dramas that constitute its subject. It is a book that freely crosses traditional period lines, as it includes studies of late Medieval as well as Renaissance entertainments, and a book that seeks to impose no uniform “period” terminology on its authors. When historical boundaries between cultural eras are themselves matters for contemporary critical debate, it makes sense to allow the traditional descriptive terms, “Medieval” and “Renaissance,” to coexist as chronological markers (however imprecisely) with that even more difficultto-define catchall, “early modern.” Once more, the essays in this collection are not organized according to a single critical or historical methodology, even when their

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subjects are similar in kind. They employ, instead, an eclectic range of interpretive practices, which reflect the variety of interpretive practices now current in the field. For instance, Robert Barrett and I both write about civic entertainments, but to different ends. While my essay seeks to question still-current theoretical accounts of power and agency by examining the staging of debates about words in Elizabeth I’s coronation procession, Robert Barrett’s careful archival research enacts a historical recovery of the political circumstances that explain the absence of the “Triumphator” in the 1610 Chester’s Triumph in Honor of her Prince. One paper seeks retrospectively to challenge the ideological determinism of materialist and historicist interpretations of culture, while the other supplements new historical work with additional—and necessary—historical labor. In turn, as illustrious examples of what I have called “the rehabilitation of the aesthetic” in contemporary dramatic criticism, Nora Johnson’s theoretically provocative interrogation of the “magic” of authorship in John a Kent and John a Cumber finds its complement in Lauren Shohet’s rigorous reassessment of genre as a necessary “locale” for reading mid-Caroline masques. Tom Bishop’s essay on the aftermaths of English court masques illustrates, in turn, the power of the new materialist criticism both to recover greater knowledge about the staging practices of early modern performances, in the full specificity of their production, and to reflect upon the significance of those practices for understanding the social significance of the genre. And as one more example of the diversity of critical approaches employed in these essays, Tiffany Alkan’s paper supplies an intertextual reading of Busirane’s mask of Cupid in The Faerie Queene, a reading that highlights the indispensability of courtly entertainments for understanding Spenser’s literary production, and the dark liminal quality of that production as it is analyzed from anthropological and psycho-sexual perspectives. All of the essays in this volume have at their center the spectacles and public performances of Medieval and Renaissance England, and that national perspective gives the volume a certain focus. When Peter Holland writes about the mapping of Britain in Lear or Richard McCoy about the political dynamics of equivocation in the “Scottish play,” a national perspective becomes especially meaningful to the papers’ arguments. The volume possesses an important coherence, too, in certain pairings between and among the essays. Most obvious, Richard Emmerson’s survey of the Antichrist on page and stage finds a useful partner in Peter Cockett’s account of the PLS’s (Poculi Ludique

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Societas’s) staging of the Chester Antichrist. Three of the volume’s essays attend to Shakespeare’s public performances—however differently pointed that critical attention proves—and three provide special attention to the Renaissance court masque. Just as interesting, however, and just as significant are those less obvious relationships that bind one essay in the collection to another. Nearly all of these essays supplement their individual readings of individual texts with self-conscious critical reflections about how best to undertake the interpretation of early modern performances, and in the aftermath of those major revisions in hermeneutic theory taking place since the 1980s, such self-consciousness remains one of the distinctive characteristics (and, arguably, one of the strengths) of contemporary critical practice. New critical movements are often productive of new critical pieties—the insistence, for instance, upon reading theater strictly in terms of social or political determinants—and the papers by Johnson and Shohet illustrate pointedly the potential gains of reassessing the new pieties as well as the old. Other connections bind the essays in the collection. Not surprisingly, religion appears front and center as a prominent issue both for the scholar of Antichrist who illuminates the variety of his late Medieval representations and for the director who ponders how to make the Antichrist’s demonic “miracles” meaningful for a contemporary (and mainly) secular audience. Moreover, as an indicator of the turn toward religion in recent criticism, Sarah Beckwith’s meditation on Measure for Measure performs much of its critical work against the background of early modern inwardness conceived in Christian terms; her argument illuminates what she calls the “peculiarity” of Shakespeare’s relation to the Middle Ages, evidenced by his use of theater to combat the skeptical alienation of Renaissance culture and the empty theatricality of mere signs. Partly in response to Beckwith’s argument about Shakespeare’s use of theater against theatricality, Richard McCoy’s essay on Macbeth attends to the less radically iconoclastic spokesmen of the Reformed church as a means of contextualizing the value of theatrical signs—the equivocal dissimulations of a Malcolm—to clarify important realities and to reconstitute community. Also, my own effort to interrogate the near-obsessive preoccupation with words in Elizabeth’s coronation procession trades centrally on the new prominence of the Word in Protestant England, and the complex epistemological consequences of heightened awareness

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inside humanist culture about the always conditional relationship between signs and the things they signify. Other readers of the volume will discover other connections among these essays for themselves. This is not to lay claim to some sort of overarching scheme that unifies its contents. Similar to most collections of its kind, the value of this book depends largely upon the quality of its individual essays, and upon the power of those essays, circulating through scholarly publication, to report, extend, and renew those engaging conversations about the significance of early modern spectacles and public performances, which had their beginnings in MARCO’s third annual symposium. Robert E. Stillman University of Tennessee, Knoxville

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Tiffany J. Alkan is a Ph.D. candidate at Columbia University, where she has been awarded a Whiting Fellowship in support of her dissertation, entitled: “The Fantastical Dreams of Abbie-Lubbers”: Romance and Religion in early modern England. She has presented her research at several national conferences, including Spenser at Kalamazoo, Sixteenth-Century Studies Conference, GEMCS, and the Shakespeare Association of America Conference. Robert W. Barrett, Jr. is an Assistant Professor of English at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. He is currently finishing a book on regional writing and identity in Medieval and Renaissance Cheshire and will soon begin work on an edition of the Chester Whitsun plays for the TEAMS Middle English Texts series. Sarah Beckwith is Marcello Lotti Professor of English, Theater and Religious Studies at Duke University. She is the author of Christ’s Body (Routledge, 1993, paperback, 1996), and Signifying God (University of Chicago Press, 2001). She is currently writing a book on Shakespeare’s romances. Tom Bishop is Associate Professor of English at Case Western Reserve University, where his principal teaching is in Shakespeare, Renaissance literature, and post-colonial literature. He holds degrees from Melbourne University and Yale University. His publications include Shakespeare and the Theatre of Wonder (Cambridge 1996), Amores: a verse translation of Ovid (Carcanet/Routledge, 2003), and essays on Shakespeare, Jonson, Jacobean masques, Elizabethan music, Australian literature, and other subjects. He is coeditor of the Shakespearean International Yearbook and is currently working on a book on the poetics of scriptural allusion in Shakespeare. Peter Cockett is Assistant Professor in the Department of Theatre and Film at McMaster University. He is also a professional actor and director, working in theatre, film and television in England and Canada. His research is performance-centered and explores the theatre

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of Medieval and early modern England through theatrical production. He directed the PLS double bill of George Peele’s Old Wives Tale and the Chester Play of Antichrist, which were performed as part of the University of Tennessee’s Third Annual MARCO Symposium. Richard K. Emmerson is Executive Director of the Medieval Academy and Editor of Speculum. After taking his Ph.D. at Stanford University, he taught at Walla Walla College, Georgetown University, and Western Washington University, where he chaired its English department. Since coming to the Academy he has taught at Tufts University and Harvard University. He has published five books and numerous articles studying medieval apocalypticism, drama, visionary poetry, and illustrated manuscripts. Peter Holland is McMeel Family Professor in Shakespeare Studies and Department Chair in the Department of Film, Television and Theatre at the University of Notre Dame. Before moving to Notre Dame in 2002, he was Director of the Shakespeare Institute, Stratfordupon-Avon. He is General Editor of Shakespeare Survey and the series ‘Redefining British Theatre History’ (Palgrave Macmillan) and coGeneral Editor (with Stanley Wells) of the Oxford Shakespeare Topics series (Oxford University Press). Nora Johnson is Associate Professor of English at Swarthmore College. She is the author of The Actor as Playwright in Early Modern Drama (Cambridge, 2003). Her essays and reviews have appeared in English Literary History, Shakespeare Studies, Theatre Journal, and Shakespeare Quarterly. She is currently at work on a study of Shakespeare and comic performance in nineteenth-century American culture. Richard C. McCoy is Professor of English at Queens College and the Graduate Center, City University of New York. He is the author of several books on Renaissance Literature, including Alterations of State: Sacred Kingship in the English Reformation (Columbia 2002), and he is currently working on a study of theatrical faith in Shakespeare. Lauren Shohet, Associate Professor of English at Villanova University, is the author of Reading Masques: The English Masque and Public Culture in the Seventeenth Century (Oxford University Press, 2006), and numerous articles on masques, Milton, Shakespeare, and contemporary reimaginings of the Renaissance. She has received fellowships and awards

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from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the Mellon Foundation, the Folger Shakespeare Library, the Shakespeare Association of America, and the Huntington Library. Robert E. Stillman is Professor of English at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, where he sits on the steering committee for MARCO, an Institute for Medieval and Renaissance Studies. He is the author of several books on Renaissance literature and culture, including The New Philosophy and Universal Languages in Renaissance England: Bacon, Hobbes, and Wilkins (Associated University Presses, 1996), and he is now completing a monograph about the piety and politics of Philip Sidney’s poetics.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Richard K. Emmerson, Antichrist on Page and Stage in the Later Middle Ages Fig. 1.

Fig.

Fig.

Fig. Fig. Fig. Fig.

Fig. Fig. Fig.

Jour du Jugement, Besançon, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 579, fol. 10v: Satan teaches Antichrist. All illustrations from this volume are reproduced by permission of the Bibliothèque Municipale de Besançon. 2. Der Antichrist und die Fünfzehn Zeichen vor dem Jüngsten Gericht, p. 11, upper: Antichrist’s assistants mark forehead of convert (mark of the beast). All illustrations from this block-book are reproduced from Der Antichrist: Faksimile der ersten typographischen Ausgabe (Hamburg: Friedrich Wittig Verlag, 1979). 3. Jour du Jugement, Besançon, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 579, fol. 32r: Usurer and household rise from coffins and are condemned. 4. Jour du Jugement, Besançon, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 579, fol. 11r: Antichrist cures blind man. 5. Jour du Jugement, Besançon, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 579, fol. 16v: Ten kings converted. 6. Jour du Jugement, Besançon, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 579, fol. 22r: Threatened cardinal kneels before Antichrist. 7. Wellcome Apocalypse, London, Wellcome Library for the History of Medicine, MS 49, fol. 10r: Enoch and Elijah executed; resurrection of Two Witnesses and earthquake. Reproduced by permission of the Wellcome Library, London. 8. Der Antichrist und die Fünfzehn Zeichen vor dem Jüngsten Gericht, p. 22: Antichrist’s pretended resurrection and pseudo-Pentecost. 9. Der Antichrist und die Fünfzehn Zeichen vor dem Jüngsten Gericht, p. 30, lower: The fourth sign of doomsday—the sea burns. 10. Jour du Jugement, Besançon, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 579, fol. 25r: Angel pours vial of wrath over Antichrist’s head.

Robert E. Stillman, “Nothing More Nedeful” Fig. 1.

The Byble in English, Titlepage. Copyright: British Library C.18.d.7.

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Tiffany J. Alkan, Britomart’s Backward Glance in Spenser’s Faerie Queene Fig. 1. Fig. 2.

Unknown artist, The Life and Death of Sir Henry Unton (ca. 1596). National Portrait Gallery, London. Whitney, A Choice of Emblems (1586), p. 63. By permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library [Call n STC 25438].

ANTICHRIST ON PAGE AND STAGE IN THE LATER MIDDLE AGES Richard K. Emmerson

What medieval Christians thought about Antichrist varied greatly depending upon the context in which he was discussed. It mattered significantly whether he appeared in a vernacular poem breathlessly warning of the terrors awaiting the faithful in the Last Days, in a sober Latin theological treatise outlining Christian eschatology, in a heretical sermon condemning ecclesiastical abuses, or in a strident polemical attack on the Jews.1 While not minimizing the rich variety of popular lore and doctrinal learning surrounding this apocalyptic figure, I wish to trace one particular understanding of Antichrist that had a significant influence on the religious culture of the late Middle Ages. Beginning with patristic commentaries on selected apocalyptic texts and continuing through monastic exegesis of the early Middle Ages to the theological compendia of high medieval scholastics, this understanding became established by the fourteenth century, as is evident in a wide range of sermons, plays, poems, chronicles, and didactic and religious texts as well as many works of art, manuscript illustrations, sculptures, mosaics, and stained glass windows. The Antichrist whom I wish to examine on page and stage was understood not symbolically—as a representative of a religious institution or a particular people or a political force—but as an individual human being, a real person who was expected to appear at a real place in a real time at the end of world history. Most Christians living during the high Middle Ages believed that Antichrist would become Satan’s representative in the Last Days, attacking Christianity

1 For these and other understandings of Antichrist, see Horst Dieter Rauh, Das Bild des Antichrist im Mittelalter: Von Tyconius zum deutschen Symbolismus, Beiträge zur Geschichte der Philosophie und Theologie des Mittelalters n.F. 9, 2nd ed. (Münster: Aschendorff, 1979); Richard Kenneth Emmerson, Antichrist in the Middle Ages: A Study of Medieval Apocalypticism, Art, and Literature (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1981); Robert E. Lerner, “Antichrists and Antichrist in Joachim of Fiore,” Speculum 60 (1985): 553–70; Bernard McGinn, Antichrist: Two Thousand Years of the Human

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and gaining control over the world primarily by four means: by converting Christians through the effective preaching of false doctrine; by deceiving God’s chosen (even the “elect,” Matt. 24:24) through the enactment of “miracles,” probably accomplished through demonic assistance; by bribing officials, both political and ecclesiastic, with riches and territorial possessions; and by brutally persecuting those who remained steadfast. He was expected, in other words, to carry out the last great trial that Christians must endure before the second advent of Christ and the Last Judgment. My goal in discussing this widely established and popular tradition is to provide a context for understanding the Coming of Antichrist, the penultimate play of the Chester cycle of mystery plays.2 It was staged as part of the University of Tennessee MARCO conference, at which the oral version of this paper was presented. The play’s treatment of the legendary apocalyptic figure will receive attention throughout this discussion even as analysis focuses on other examples of the popular understanding of Antichrist. As a way of organizing the discussion and surveying the tradition, I will examine a much longer and not widely known French play, the Jour du Jugement.3 A full theatrical treatment of the life and career of Antichrist, it is much more extensively developed than is the Chester pageant, which as part of a much longer cycle of plays covering salvation history Fascination with Evil (San Francisco: Harper, 1994); Andrew Colin Gow, The Red Jews: Antisemitism in an Apocalyptic Age, 1200–1600 (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1995); and Curtis V. Bostick, The Antichrist and the Lollards: Apocalypticism in Late Medieval and Reformation England (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1998). 2 The Chester Mystery Cycle, ed. R. M. Lumiansky and David Mills, Early English Text Society, supp. ser. 3 (London: Oxford University Press, 1974); plays from this cycle will be cited parenthetically by pageant (in Roman numerals) and by lines. For interpretive studies see Peter W. Travis, Dramatic Design in the Chester Cycle (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982); and David Mills, Recycling the Cycle: The City of Chester and its Whitsun Plays (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998). For dating and the cycle’s sixteenth-century revisions, see Lawrence M. Clopper, “The History and Development of the Chester Cycle,” Modern Philology 75 (1978): 219–46; for the reception of its performance in relation to the English Reformation, see Richard K. Emmerson, “Contextualizing Performance: The Reception of the Chester ‘Antichrist’,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 29 (1999): 89–119. 3 Edited by Emile Roy, Jour du Jugement: Mystère français sur le Grand Schisme, Ètudes sur le théatre français au xvi e siècle (Paris: Emile Bouillon, 1902). Translations are quoted by line number from Richard K. Emmerson and David Hult, Antichrist and Judgment Day: The Middle French Jour du Jugement, Early European Drama Translation Series 2 (Asheville, N.C.: Pegasus, 1998). The play has recently been re-edited and translated into modern French prose by Jean-Pierre Perrot and Jean-Jacques Nonot, Le Jour du Jugement: Mystère du XIV e siècle (Chambéry: Éditions Comp’Act, 2000).

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from Creation to Doomsday is necessarily much shorter and more selective in what it stages. The Jour du Jugement, composed around 1335,4 about a century and a half before the Chester play, develops in a highly original, thematically rich, and theatrically spectacular way the medieval Antichrist tradition as well as other popular expectations regarding the events approaching the end of the world. It is the only medieval non-cycle play that presents at length two of the fundamental episodes of Christian eschatology, the appearance of Antichrist in the Last Days and the Last Judgment.5 In contrast to the relatively small cast of seven main and four minor characters who comprise the Chester Antichrist play, the French play’s cast of ninety-three characters is enormous, including ten devils, ten angels, and ten kings; the pope, two cardinals, and a bishop; a host of Jews, soldiers, and other followers of Antichrist; numerous saints of the New Testament and two Old Testament figures, Enoch and Elijah; the righteous saved and many more of the evil damned; and Antichrist and his mother, the “Whore of Babylon,” as well as Christ and his mother, the Virgin Mary. It begins with a sermon that recounts the Fall of Adam and Eve and other Old and New Testament events leading to the life of Christ. Although it does not develop the full biblical tradition at length, as do the several Old and New Testament plays in the Chester cycle that precede its Antichrist play, the Preacher’s sermon in the Jour du Jugement does recall the central events of salvation history to set its eschatological themes within a larger biblical context. More significantly for our introduction to Antichrist on the page as well as the stage, the unique manuscript of the Jour du Jugement includes numerous beautiful illustrations that may help us visualize what a late medieval audience might have seen and thought about Antichrist when viewing the play. After a dramatis personae and frontispiece depicting the Last Judgment, the mid-fourteenth-century deluxe manuscript from north-eastern France inscribes the play’s 4

For a discussion of its date, provenance, and manuscript see the introduction to Emmerson and Hult, Antichrist, pp. xiii–xvi. Although Roy originally associated the play with the Great Schism and dated it to 1398, he retracted this view after Noël Valois, in a review of the edition ( Journal des Savants, n.s. 1 [1903]: 677–86), dated the play to ca. 1330 and the manuscript to ca. 1350. Unfortunately, Roy’s erroneous dating is inexplicably repeated in Lynette R. Muir, The Biblical Drama of Medieval Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 150. 5 For a survey of Antichrist drama see Klaus Aichele, Das Antichristdrama des Mittelalters der Reformation und Gegenreformation (The Hague: Martin Nijhoff, 1974).

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dialogue in double columns. Rubrics identify the speakers, and the dialogue is accompanied by eighty-eight remarkable miniatures placed one, two, or three to a page.6 Unfortunately, the play and its manuscript have received little sustained scholarly analysis since it was first edited in 1902.7 Furthermore, the images from its manuscript have never been described at length or analyzed in depth, even though they constitute the largest and most developed cycle of Antichrist images in art, in any medium and, as far as I’ve been able to determine, from any period.8 This neglect is in part due to the unique nature of the manuscript—which is still basically not known to art historians—and in part to the fact that analyses of Antichrist in art have tended to emphasize the influence of the many beautiful illustrated Apocalypses that became very prominent and important during the high Middle Ages.9 This scholarly emphasis is understandable because commentaries on the Apocalypse were crucial 6 For a list of miniatures in relation to the text see Emmerson and Hult, Antichrist, appendix 2, 94–98. Perrot and Nonot reproduce in color twenty-nine miniatures, and all the miniatures are available in color on Jesse Hurlburt’s DScriptorium website project (http://www.byu.edu/~hurlbut/dscriptorium/jugement/jugement.html). Roy also lists the miniatures at the conclusion of his edition, 257–59. 7 In addition to the introductions and commentaries that accompany Roy’s edition, Perrot and Nonot’s edition and modern French translation, and Emmerson and Hult’s English translation, see Grace Frank, The Medieval French Drama (Oxford: Clarendon, 1954), 131–35, which summarizes the play and corrects Roy; Aichele, Antichristdrama, 35–39, which outlines the play’s scenes; and Emmerson, Antichrist, 166–87, which traces the exegetical context of the Jour du Jugement and discusses its relationship to other plays. Muir, Biblical Drama, devotes only two sentences to the play, erroneously describing the Antichrist section as a “preface” to the Jour du Jugement (p. 150). The play is not discussed in Alan Knight, “France,” in The Theatre of Medieval Europe: New Research in Early Drama, ed. Eckehard Simon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 151–68. 8 The fullest study of the miniatures, which focuses on their possible relationship to the play’s performance, is Richard K. Emmerson, “Visualizing Performance: The Miniatures of Besançon MS 579 ( Jour du Jugement),” Exemplaria 11 (1999): 245–72, from which this present essay occasionally borrows. For Antichrist in medieval art, see Rosemary Muir Wright, Art and Antichrist in Medieval Europe (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1995), which does not discuss the Jour du Jugement miniatures. See also Emmerson, Antichrist, 108–45; Bernard McGinn, “Portraying Antichrist in the Middle Ages,” in The Use and Abuse of Eschatology in the Middle Ages, ed. Werner Verbeke, et al., Mediaevalia Lovaniensia, series I, studia XV (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1988), 1–48; and Richard K. Emmerson, “The Representation of Antichrist in Hildegard of Bingen’s Scivias: Image, Word, Commentary, and Visionary Experience,” Gesta 41 (2002): 95–110. For continuity of the Antichrist tradition in Renaissance art, see Jonathan B. Riess, The Renaissance Antichrist: Luca Signorelli’s Orvieto Frescoes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995). 9 One of the most important studies, still valuable, is Jessie Poesch, “Antichrist Imagery in Anglo-French Apocalypse Manuscripts” (Ph.D. diss., Univ. of Pennsylvania,

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in the development of the Antichrist legend.10 Exegetes identified the various beasts, hellish creatures, and angelic beings from the Book of Revelation as prophetic symbols hinting of the roles that Antichrist and his supernatural supporters and opponents were expected to play in the Last Days. But one result of such emphasis on illustrated Apocalypses is to limit analysis of the rich details of Antichrist’s legendary life, which had a wide-ranging iconography extending in interesting ways beyond traditional Apocalypse illustrations, as is particularly evident in the graphic cuts illustrating the German block-book vitae Antichristi.11 Although drawing from many patristic, scholastic, and legendary sources, this popular vita Antichristi drew from the Libellus de Antichristo, a short compendium of eschatological exegesis, pseudoprophetic texts, and folklore written around 950 by Abbot Adso for the French Queen, Gerberga.12 As I have argued elsewhere, the Libellus, by ingeniously transforming and inverting the well-established genre of the saints’ legend, created in its form and subject matter something like an anti-saint’s life.13 It served as a convenient way to organize what were originally many unrelated events expected in the Last Days, because they could be linked to the life of the leading antagonist of the end-time, Antichrist. Both in Latin and in vernacular versions, the Libellus was included in encyclopedic compendia and developed in theological handbooks, influencing many religious, 1966); for a survey of manuscripts illustrating the Apocalypse see Richard Kenneth Emmerson and Suzanne Lewis, “Census and Bibliography of Medieval Manuscripts Containing Apocalypse Illustrations, c. 800–1500,” Traditio 40 (1984): 337–79; 41 (1985): 367–409; and 42 (1986): 443–72. It will be cited as “Census” and manuscript number. 10 See Emmerson, Antichrist, 39–43. 11 See Karin Boveland, et al., Der Antichrist und Die Fünfzehn Zeichen vor dem Jüngsten Gericht, 2 vols. (Hamburg: Friedrich Wittig, 1979). For other non-Apocalypse illustrations, see Richard K. Emmerson, “Beyond the Apocalypse: The Human Antichrist in Late Medieval Illustrated Manuscripts,” in Waiting in Fearful Hope: Approaching the New Millennium, ed. Christopher Kleinhenz and Fannie LeMoine (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1999), 102–30. 12 The standard edition is Adso Dervensis, De ortu et tempore Antichristi, ed. Daniel Verhelst, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis 45 (Turnholt: Brepols, 1976). The best translation is by Bernard McGinn, Apocalyptic Spirituality, Classics of Western Spirituality (New York: Paulist, 1979), 81–96; John Wright also translates it as an appendix to his The Play of Antichrist (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1967), 100–10. On Adso see Robert Konrad, De ortu et tempore Antichristi: Antichristvorstellung und Geschichtsbild des Abtes Adso von Montier-en-Der, Münchener historische Studien (Kallmuenz: Lassleben, 1964). 13 See Richard Kenneth Emmerson, “Antichrist as Anti-Saint: The Significance of Abbot Adso’s Libellus de Antichristo,” American Benedictine Review 30 (1979): 175–90.

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literary, and visual texts during the high Middle Ages.14 Expanded by legendary and folkloristic sources, it provided the basic shape of the Antichrist tradition, from which various cultural works, such as the plays we are examining, could draw to develop their own unique theatrical versions. For example, the Jour du Jugement draws on features of this popular tradition when it treats the origins of Antichrist. After the Preacher’s introductory sermon outlining the major events of salvation history up to the Last Days,15 the action of the play begins with a parliament in hell, a rather inauspicious, if spectacular, opening. Satan, realizing that the end of time is near, rallies his demonic troops by urging action to produce the greatest weapon they will marshal against Christianity: But before the judgment arrives, one of us should become a man and go straight to Babylon, making sure that, without any delay, he manages to bed a woman full of every type of disgrace, one who has lived all her days in a brothel, winter and summer. She will be of the lineage of Dan and will conceive a son. He will call himself Antichrist and make the people love him through gifts, through fraudulent preaching, and through the resuscitation of the dead, whom he will bring back to life; even the treasures of the world will be, in truth, completely at his disposal. (lines 207–23)

The goal is to seduce a Jewish prostitute living in Babylon, the play’s dramatic version of the apocalyptic Whore of Babylon (Rev. 17) and the way it imaginatively merges two apparently unrelated strands of exegesis concerning Antichrist’s origins—that he will be born of the

14

For the influence of Adso’s Libellus see Emmerson, Antichrist, 74–107. For an early vernacular version, see Richard K. Emmerson, “From Epistola to Sermo: The Old English Version of Adso’s Libellus de Antichristo,” Journal of English and Germanic Philology 82 (1983): 1–10. 15 For the miniature illustrating the sermon, see Emmerson, “Visualizing Performance,” 267–68 and fig. 10.

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Jewish people, specifically from the tribe of Dan; and that he will be born in Babylon.16 In the next scene two devils travel to earth, and one, Engignart, discards his hellish costume to take human form. A miniature shows him dressed in the latest style as a modish young man and approaching the prostitute in a garden, recalling the seduction scenes so common in medieval romances.17 Ranting about her hatred of Christianity, the Babylonian harlot establishes her crucial prophetic pedigree from the tribe of Dan, a lineage clearly in contrast to the house of David that is so fundamental to the genealogy of Jesus (Matt. 1): I am a Jew, and I was born under the Law that God gave to Moses and to the rest of us; but I hate the Christians, all of them, those people who believe in Jesus Christ, for their God is insignificant, and I neither esteem him nor fear him in the slightest. Let there be no doubt, I am of the lineage of Dan; now you, tell me what you are seeking. (lines 293–301)

Engignart, a perfect devil, answers forthrightly, drawing on the language of fin amours to explain his “adventure”: Those are admirable words you have pronounced my fair sister; it is from a foreign land that I have come here in search of adventure, and I also have come to look for a beloved. Thus I beg you, with utmost courtesy, to agree to be my lady and to accept me as your beloved; grant that you will take possession of me as you would a lover so that with you I may fulfill my pleasure; this is what should come from love. (lines 302–11)

The conception of Antichrist follows, which is pictured in a relatively coy miniature showing the devil and Antichrist’s mother under bedclothes.18 The play thus follows the more popular, folkloristic tradition that Antichrist is engendered by a devil, not the orthodox 16 See, for example, Adso’s Libellus de Antichristo, trans. McGinn, Apocalyptic Spirituality, 90–91. 17 See Emmerson, “Visualizing Performance,” fig. 6. 18 For the conception of Antichrist see Emmerson, “Visualizing Performance,” 259–62 and fig. 4.

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view that he is fully human but just possessed by a devil.19 As his prophetic opponent will proclaim in the Chester Coming of Antichrist, he may call himself Christ and Messiah, but “Hee ys the devyll” (XXIII: 299)! To my knowledge, the miniature illustrating the Jour du Jugement is the first visual depiction of the conception of Antichrist.20 The French play’s emphasis on the origins of Antichrist is one of the ways in which it differs from the Chester Antichrist play. Since the English play is part of a much longer cycle, it is much shorter and necessarily more selective in staging the tradition. It does not stage Antichrist’s conception, birth, or youth, but introduces him at the beginning of his false ministry when he claims to be “Messias, Christ, and most of might” (XXIII:13) and attacks Jesus as a liar who was slain at his command (25–32). He even boasts that he will be loved by all women (40–44), an interesting allusion to Daniel 11:37: “and he shall follow the lust of women. . . .” In contrast to this hurried introduction, the action of the Jour du Jugement seems leisurely. For example, it depicts him as a young man being taught by Satan (Fig. 1), who has taken human form. He promises the youth authority over the earth if he consents to a Faustian pact: You must renounce God and grant everything to me, body and soul together. (lines 549–51)

In response, Antichrist takes Satan as his feudal lord: “I hereby become your vassal, in body and in soul” (line 571). This scene is the humanized dramatic equivalent of miniatures depicting Apocalypse 13:2, in which the Dragon, symbolizing Satan, gives authority to the seven-headed beast that rises from the sea, a traditional symbol of Antichrist.21 In the French play, the passing of authority is dramatized in more personal terms, as the devil teaching his pupil and promising “I shall remain with you never leaving your side” (line 19

On the exegetical discussions, see Emmerson, Antichrist, 79–83. Similar images are included in the fifteenth-century German block-book vitae Antichristi; see Boveland, Der Antichrist, 2:3, and Emmerson, Antichrist, fig. 3. It is also illustrated in a book printed by Wynkyn de Worde, ca. 1525, about the time when the Chester cycle was revised. See Richard K. Emmerson, “Wynkyn de Worde’s Byrthe and Lyfe of Antechryst and Popular Eschatology on the Eve of the English Reformation,” Mediaevalia 14 [1991, for 1988]: 281–311, esp. fig. 4. 21 See, for example, the Cloisters Apocalypse, fol. 22v; facs. ed. in The Cloisters Apocalypse, with commentaries by Florens Deuchler, Jeffrey M. Hoffeld, and Helmut Nickel (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1971). 20

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Fig. 1

579), a way of reminding the audience that notwithstanding his claims to be the Messiah, Antichrist is thoroughly inspired by the devil.22 The exegetical interpretation and the visual illustration correspond to the dramatic scene, but its effect in the play is to rationalize apocalyptic symbols within a medieval social structure and thus develop a new iconography suitable for the stage. Another way in which the French play develops popular, if also loathsome, expectations regarding Antichrist’s role in the Last Days is in its emphasis upon the Jews as Antichrist’s first and most loyal followers. As Adso explains, “all the Jews will flock to him, in the belief that they are receiving God, but rather they will receive the devil.”23 Once Antichrist begins his preaching career, therefore, the Jews are shown as his constant companions. Such is the case throughout the French manuscript’s miniatures, even in those illustrating dramatic scenes in which the Jews have no part in the play’s action or its dialogue.24 This anti-Jewish bias informs a unique interpretation of

22 As Adso states, “The devil’s power will foster and protect him in his mother’s womb and it will always be with him” (McGinn, trans., Apocalyptic Spirituality, 90). 23 Trans. McGinn, Apocalyptic Spirituality, 94. 24 See, for example, Emmerson, “Visualizing Performance,” fig. 11.

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Fig. 2

the mark of the beast. Revelation 13 warns that a false prophet beast “shall make all, both little and great, rich and poor, freemen and bondmen, to have a character in their right hand, or on their foreheads. And that no man might buy or sell, but he that hath the character, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name” (13:16–17).25 The German block-book vitae Antichristi repeatedly depict the “mark of the beast” in the expected way (Fig. 2), showing a seated Antichrist surrounded by demons and directing his assistants as they mark a convert’s forehead. But the Jour du Jugement spins this text by staging a scene in which Antichrist has coins minted with his image embossed, as pictured in another miniature illustrating its manuscript.26 It first shows the leader of the Jews, Annes, urging Antichrist to Have coins minted upon which your image is engraved, and as soon as they are made have it announced that everyone should take one as a sign that they are under your banner. (lines 640–44)

25 All biblical citations are to the Douay-Rheims translation of the Vulgate, The Holy Bible (rpt. Rockford, Ill.: Tan Books, 1989). 26 For this miniature, see Emmerson, “Visualizing Performance,” fig. 3.

antichrist on page and stage in the later middle ages 11 A workman standing to the right hammers the image onto coins, while the devil Pluto stands behind him. In the next miniature Pluto reads a proclamation given to him by Annes. It orders the entire world to use the coins and display them as a sign of loyalty to Antichrist, threatening that “whomever is found or taken into custody/ without the ensign will be accused/ of disloyalty and put to death” (lines 687–89). Clearly the mark of the beast plays a central role in the play, but it is here imprinted on coins rather than on the foreheads or hands of Antichrist’s followers, a dramatically effective way of handling the enigmatic apocalyptic text and making it believable for a contemporary audience. All are also warned that anyone who raises the price of these coins artificially will be imprisoned (lines 658–61), probably alluding to economic events in mid-fourteenth-century France. This focus on economic issues seems connected to the play’s fixation on the eschatological role of the Jews. It is no coincidence that the Jour du Jugement strongly condemns usury, probably another reference to contemporary economic issues and yet another way in which it can attack the Jews.27 This condemnation is evident in a particularly harsh scene in which Christ in judgment fiercely condemns to hell a usurer and his entire family and household, who are shown rising from the dead (Fig. 3). You neglected my command and lived by usury, all four of you, this you all know well. Body and soul together, each as a complete individual, I hereby give the four of you to the Devil. (lines 2070–74)

Interestingly, the Usurer is also the last human to speak in the play; at the very conclusion of the Last Judgment he mourns: Alas! What sorrow! Alas! Alas! I have been dispatched to the eternal presence Of the king of every iniquity And shall be toasted on every side. (lines 2408–11) 27 For a similar linking in the visual arts, see Sara Lipton, Images of Intolerance: The Representation of Jews and Judaism in the Bible moralisée (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999). Lipton notes that in these deluxe illustrated Bibles “a series of similar metaphoric condensations (of greed and idolatry, of avarice and the Antichrist) represents the nexus of Judaism, usury, and avarice not simply as nonChristian but as actively and willfully anti-Christian” (40).

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Fig. 3

Ending with the Usurer’s punishment links the play’s economic and anti-Jewish elements. This unrelenting anti-Semitism is one of the most troubling ways in which the Jour du Jugement differs in tone from the Coming of Antichrist. Although the Chester play depicts Antichrist as Jewish—he refers to “my people of Jewes,” XXIII (33 and 229)—it does not stage Jewish caricatures who are unrelentingly evil, conspire against Christians, or motivate the vicious action of the play. The Jour du Jugement manuscript also includes several miniatures that accentuate Antichrist’s tremendous deceit and that warn that he will successfully convert the entire world. Antichrist’s growing hegemony is staged through his preaching of false doctrine shortly after he is instructed by Satan, the first of the four ways in which the apocalyptic deceiver is expected to sway the unwary.28 But Antichrist’s most effective stage tricks are his apparent miracles, such as the restoration of sight to a blind man (lines 606–29, Fig. 4) and curing a leper (lines 696–743), which he accomplishes with theatrical flair. One of the questions regarding Antichrist debated by medieval theologians was the source and extent of his miraculous power. Was 28 For an illustration of his preaching, see Emmerson, “Visualizing Performance,” fig. 11.

antichrist on page and stage in the later middle ages 13

Fig. 4

he able to accomplish numerous supernatural marvels through the power of the devil working in him? Or were they all fake, simply illusions, in the case of this play, sheer stage magic? Of particular concern was Antichrist’s amazing power to raise the dead, the ultimate miracle. Some theologians argued that Antichrist really would be able to raise the dead, whereas others said it would be accomplished through magic or demonic possession.29 This miracle is made a central scene in both the Jour du Jugement and the Coming of Antichrist. In the French play, Antichrist, following the suggestion of an evil bishop (lines 756–67), proceeds to a graveyard, where he apparently resurrects a dead man, calling out: “Body, pick yourself up instantly!” (line 786). A miniature depicts him as he rises from a tomb, hands clasped in worship of Antichrist.30 The Chester Coming of Antichrist similarly makes the resurrection of two men the primary sign of Antichrist’s divinity: Whether I in my godhead bee by verey signe you shall see.

29 30

On this debate see Emmerson, Antichrist, 92–94. See facsimile 2 in Emmerson and Hult, Antichrist and Judgment Day, xxxvi.

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richard k. emmerson Ryse up, dead men, and honour me and knowe me for your lord. (XXIII, 101–104)

But it is important that this so-called miracle not be left unchallenged by the action of either play. Chester reveals the falsity of the fake resurrections when Elijah, challenging their genuineness, offers the two resurrected men bread consecrated in the name of the Trinity, and they must turn away in fear: Alas, put that bread out of my sight! To looke on hit I am not light. That print that ys upon hit pight, hit puttes me to great feere. (XXIII, 577–80)

This unmasking is particularly appropriate in the dramatic context of the Chester play, since it is part of what was originally a Corpus Christi cycle, drama associated with the celebration of the Eucharist. Given the theatrical effectiveness of the false miracle, those apparently raised from the dead must, in some way, be unmasked, because the miracle of resurrection is finally just too powerful for Antichrist’s appropriation, whether on page or stage. The French play also ultimately assures its audience that this apparent miracle is, in fact, a fake, that indeed the dead body has not been resurrected but has been possessed by a devil. Thus, a later scene near the end of the play, after the death of Antichrist, depicts Beelzebub leaving the body of the dead man.31 The rubric notes that the devil “speaks in the Resurrected Body,” admitting: I have brought this body to its feet And yet it is lacking the breath of life: Whatever words he has spoken are my doing, for thus I have guided him. (lines 1600–1603)

The miniature shows a grisly demon leaving the body while a crowd, modeling the audience’s reaction, stares in amazement. But before this miracle is proven false, Antichrist is able to convert the entire world. The Jour du Jugement symbolically depicts his secular hegemony by staging the conversion of a group of ten kings who are shown pledging allegiance to Antichrist (Fig. 5). These characters are the play’s representation of the ten horns of the beast of

31

Emmerson, “Visualizing Performance,” fig. 9.

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Fig. 5

Revelation 13, which exegetes identified as the major kingdoms expected to rule the world in the time of Antichrist. The Chester Antichrist, with its much smaller cast, stages only four kings, perhaps symbolizing the four corners of the world rather than the ten horns of the beast but also those, like the Jews, who believe “that Christ ys not common yet” (XXIII, 62). But no matter the number of kings, the symbolic import is the same, to represent the totality of Antichrist’s power. In both plays Antichrist gains political and secular support by means of his false teaching and miraculous powers and in Chester he distributes territories to the four kings: To thee I give Lombardee; and to thee Denmarke and Hungarye; and take thou Pathmos and Italie; and Roome yt shalbe thine. (XXIII, 241–44)

In the Jour du Jugement, he is also able to gain religious support, converting important ecclesiastics such as an unscrupulous bishop, who is amazed by Antichrist’s supernatural powers, and coercing two cowardly cardinals with threats (Fig. 6): “I will have you drawn by horses/if you do not convert to me” (lines 1376–77). After the first

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Fig. 6

cardinal agrees to follow Antichrist, the deceiver calls on yet another way in which he consolidates his power, by tendering bribes: Dear gentle friend, I in turn give to you more land and riches than you could ever have possessed. All that I have will be yours. (lines 1394–97)

Antichrist thus establishes his authority within the Church hierarchy quite effectively. Only the pope, who is dispatched to prison, remains steadfast. Although not as detailed as the numerous miniatures accompanying the Jour du Jugement, illustrated Apocalypses do reveal how medieval artists imagined some central features of the Antichrist tradition. Exemplifying such manuscripts are the Anglo-French Apocalypses, a visual tradition of the mid-thirteenth century and after whose early cycles of images predate the French play by about a century.32 Their relationship to the biblical text typifies the complex ways in which the Antichrist tradition seeks both to represent the literal details of

32 For these manuscripts see Suzanne Lewis, Reading Images: Narrative Discourse and Reception in the Thirteenth-Century Illuminated Apocalypse (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); “Census,” nos. 38–117; and Wright, Art and Antichrist, 115–43.

antichrist on page and stage in the later middle ages 17 apocalyptic narrative and to decipher its often fantastic imagery, for these Apocalypses combine a relatively close illustration of the biblical text with interpretations based on earlier Apocalypse commentaries, both Latin and French. The most common biblical source for the development of Antichrist iconography is Revelation 11. Scripture describes how Two Witnesses will come to preach in the Last Days (11:3) and will be killed by a beast that arises from the abyss (11:7). Early commentators identified the Two Witnesses as the Old Testament patriarch Enoch and the prophet Elijah, righteous men taken to heaven without suffering death. According to this tradition, they wait in the Earthly Paradise until the Last Days, when they will return to earth to preach against Antichrist, who is symbolized by the beast arising from the abyss.33 Thus the Chester cycle introduces them near the conclusion of its Harrowing of Hell pageant, where Adam, newly released by Christ from hell, sees the witnesses in the Earthly Paradise. As Elijah explains: Yea, bodily death, leeve thou mee, yett never suffred wee, but here ordaynt we are to bee tyll Antechriste come with hise. To fight against us shall hee and slea us in this holye cittye; but sekerly, within dayes three and a halfe, we shall ryse. (XVII, 245–52)

This brief scene, immediately preceding the cycle’s Resurrection play, anticipates their appearance later in the cycle when they return to earth shortly before the General Resurrection. The Jour du Jugement also identifies the Two Witnesses as Enoch and Elijah and associates them with the Earthly Paradise. In its first miniature after the staging of the birth of Antichrist, the manuscript depicts Enoch and Elijah standing within a walled garden—probably an allusion to the Earthly Paradise—while an angel calls them in a song to come forth.34 They then begin preaching in opposition to Antichrist. These scenes are introduced relatively early in the play and serve the dramatic purpose of allowing time to pass between the birth of Antichrist and the beginning of his adult career. Otherwise, 33

On the exegesis see Emmerson, Antichrist, 95–101. See Emmerson, “Visualizing Performance,” fig. 7. For the manuscript’s music see the analysis by Keith Glaeske in Emmerson and Hult, Antichrist, appendix 3, 99–101. 34

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their preaching, although important to the play’s plot, is relatively brief. In contrast, the preaching of Enoch and Elijah and their dispute with Antichrist constitute the longest and most important section of the Chester Coming of Antichrist.35 Although modern audiences may wonder why their vigorous theological debate is so lengthy and perhaps even question its effectiveness in performance, it is crucial to the play’s representation of this most theatrical of deceivers. One of the biggest challenges in any staging of the figure of Antichrist is to characterize him both as Christ-like and as demonically inspired. It must convince the audience that Antichrist, when he claims “Ego sum Christus” (I am Christ, Matt. 24:5), will indeed fool even the elect, while also assuring the audience that, no matter how many on stage are fooled, Antichrist really is not the Messiah. Chester accomplishes this simultaneous characterization by having Antichrist open the play speaking in Latin, allowing him to appropriate the authority of the ecclesiastical language to make outrageous claims of being divine.36 At the same time, a ridiculously confusing doctrine is attributed to him as he debates the Two Witnesses. His convoluted theology, which must have seemed absurd to medieval Christians— for example, at one point he asks, “What ys the Trinitye for to saye?” (XXIII, 491)—cues the audience to recognize his deceit, even as the characters in the play are fooled. The debate ultimately turns into a shouting match before the Doctor advises Antichrist to kill the Two Witnesses, a reminder that, notwithstanding his pretentions to imitate the life of Christ, he is a vicious persecutor, as he is often portrayed in medieval art.37 35 On the significance of the Two Witnesses to the play and its relation to the cycle as a whole, see Richard K. Emmerson, “‘Nowe Ys Common This Daye’: Enoch and Elias, Antichrist, and the Structure of the Chester Cycle,” in “Homo, Memento Finis”: The Iconography of Just Judgment in Medieval Art and Drama, ed. David Bevington, Early Drama, Art and Music, Monograph Series 5 (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 1985), 89–120. 36 On the use of Latin in other medieval plays depicting evil characters, see Richard K. Emmerson, “‘Englysch Laten’ and ‘Franch’: Demonic Language in Medieval Drama,” in The Devil, Heresy, and Witchcraft in the Middle Ages: Essays in Honor of Jeffrey B. Russell, ed. Alberto Ferreiro (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1998), 305–26. 37 See, for example, the full-folio miniature illustrating the Livre de la Vigne Nostre Seigneur (Oxford, Bodleian Library, Douce 134, fol. 30r), a French manuscript from the 1460s that depicts, in stark detail, a series of tortures, mutilations, and excruciating deaths overseen by Antichrist. For a reproduction, see Emmerson, Antichrist, fig. 6; for this manuscript, see Frances Carey, ed., The Apocalypse and the Shape of Things to Come (London: British Museum Press, 1999), 93–94, cat. no. 22; and Wright, Art and Antichrist, 170–71 and illus. 47, 48.

antichrist on page and stage in the later middle ages 19 The Jour du Jugement separates the original preaching of Enoch and Elijah from the representation of their death, treating their sermon as an introductory warning before staging Antichrist’s own preaching, miracles, and persecutions. Much later in the play, after Antichrist has converted the ten kings, the action returns to Enoch and Elijah. The Jews betray them, labeling them “false preachers,” “feigned hermits,” “traitors,” “hypocrites,” “fraudulent betrayers,” “sons of bitches,” “sinful dogs,” “filthy traitors and renegades, disloyal, vile, abject, and foul” (lines 1046–48, 1061, 1070–72). Two knights are summoned to arrest the prophets and take them to face Antichrist, who after listening to them states: Deceitful hypocrites, putrid churls, you are telling lies. I am the son of God, who can do anything; and I made all things along with Him. (lines 1122–25)

After a relatively short debate, Antichrist loses his patience and orders their execution.38 The play then again moves away from the prophets to depict Antichrist’s confrontation with the cardinals and pope, another theatrically effective way of representing the passage of time prophesied by the biblical account: “And after three days and a half, the spirit of life from God entered into them. And they stood upon their feet, and great fear fell upon them that saw them. And they heard a great voice from heaven, saying to them: Come up hither. And they went up to heaven in a cloud: and their enemies saw them” (Rev. 11:11–12). The miniature representing their resurrection by an angel, however, shows them not rising up into heaven but moving toward heaven’s gate on the left.39 The artist of the Jour du Jugement manuscript departs from traditional iconography perhaps to represent a scene as acted out on stage, where the two prophets move stage left towards a Gothic structure representing heaven. In both plays the deaths of Enoch and Elijah culminate Antichrist’s deceit and cruelty and serve as turning points in the action. The crucial significance of the Two Witnesses in the dramatic tradition is not unusual, for their death at the hands of Antichrist or his minions is central to apocalyptic iconography. In fact, in one strand of AngloFrench Apocalypses it served as the context for the development of 38 39

See Emmerson, “Visualizing Performance,” fig. 2. See Emmerson, “Visualizing Performance,” fig. 8.

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mini-picture cycles portraying the deceits and persecutions of Antichrist. One of the most interesting of these is found in the Wellcome Apocalypse, a German manuscript dated about 1420 that interleaves within its sequence of biblical illustrations several scenes warning of Antichrist’s future evil.40 Its account begins by picturing the traditional understanding of Apocalypse 11, showing the Two Witnesses, identified specifically as Enoch and Elijah, as they come forward to challenge the deceiver. In the next miniature (Fig. 7), a crowned Antichrist, enthroned and holding a sword, orders them killed by his henchmen, one of whom stabs a decapitated witness while the other swings his sword toward the head of the second prophet, who kneels in prayer. The lower register of the miniature then depicts their resurrection and assumption into heaven, following the apocalyptic text quite closely by depicting Enoch and Elijah in the upper left rising in a cloud, while a great earthquake destroys one tenth of the city, as prophesied (Rev. 11:13). The following miniatures, however, are not based on the biblical account. Instead, the next five pages of this illustrated Apocalypse insert a legendary visual life of Antichrist between the biblical account of chapters 11 and 12, a series of images based, ultimately, on Adso’s Libellus de Antichristo and later more extensive versions of the Antichrist legend rather than on scripture. A series of three scenes per folio detail the deeds of Antichrist as they were popularly imagined during the high Middle Ages. One folio, for instance, shows Antichrist in its top register burning books, to destroy the doctrine of true Christianity, and rebuilding the temple in Jerusalem, which he then appropriates, a symbolic representation of the “abomination of desolation” (Matt. 24:15).41 The next two registers of the miniature depict various supernatural, sometimes absurd, marvels that Antichrist performs to fool his followers. Among these, the middle register shows a tree growing upside-down, with its roots in the air, a symbol of the upside-down unnatural world of the Last Days that Antichrist

40 On the Wellcome Apocalypse, see Emmerson, Antichrist, 126–44 passim and illus. 11; “Census,” no. 128; and Carey, ed., Apocalypse, 90–91, cat. no. 20. 41 For a reproduction of this folio, see Wright, Art and Antichrist, illus. 49. As Wright notes (174), the main source of the inscriptions accompanying the Antichrist images is Hugh of Strasbourg’s Compendium Theologicae Veritatis. Similar scenes are also included in de Worde’s Byrthe and Lyfe of Antechryst; see Emmerson, “Wynkyn de Worde’s Byrthe and Lyfe of Antechryst,” fig. 8.

antichrist on page and stage in the later middle ages 21

Fig. 7

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performs in the Chester Antichrist play. There his stunt is part of his campaign to convert the four kings, as he boasts, from heresy: Nowe wyl I turne, all through my might, trees downe, the rootes upright— that ys marveyle to your sight— and fruyt groinge upon. So shall they growe and multiplye through my might and my maisterye. I put you owt of heresye to leeve me upon. (XXIII, 81–88)42

The lower register of this folio depicts yet more unnatural marvels, such as Antichrist’s extracting a knight from an egg. More seriously, it also illustrates a troubling supernatural sign, his bringing fire down from heaven, a power attributed to the false prophet beast in Apocalypse 13:13: “And he did great signs, so that he made also fire to come down from heaven unto the earth in the sight of men.” This event was traditionally interpreted as another of his many ways in which the pseudo-Christ deceitfully patterned his life on key events in the life of Christ, in this case performing a pseudo-Pentecost.43 Such parodies of biblical events are particularly effective in the Coming of Antichrist, since they recall earlier cycle plays the audience would have just seen that staged genuine events from Christ’s life, from his Crucifixion (XVI) and Resurrection (XVIII) to Pentecost (XXI). Thus Antichrist now pretends to die, ludicrously crying “I dye, I dye! Nowe am I dead!” (XXIII, 133), and the four kings bury him and await his resurrection in three days, as promised. He then rises, receives the adoration of the kings, goes to the temple to be worshipped, further blasphemes, and then performs the pseudo-Pentecost: I will nowe send my holye ghooste. You kinges, also to you I tell to knowe me lord of mightes moste of heaven, yearth, and hell. (XXIII, 193–96)

Antichrist’s faked resurrection and his pseudo-Pentecost—both pictured (Fig. 8) in a German block-book vita Antichristi that emphasizes their 42 This event is depicted in other Apocalypses that insert a brief vita Antichristi after chapter 11. For example, see Pierpont Morgan Library, M.524, fol. 7r (Emmerson, Antichrist, fig. 4); and London, British Library Add. MS 19896, fol. 8v (Carey, ed., Apocalypse, 125, no. 1; “Census,” no. 127). 43 This scene is also illustrated in the German block-book vitae Antichristi; see Emmerson, Antichrist, fig. 9.

antichrist on page and stage in the later middle ages 23

Fig. 8

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demonic origins—are stunning examples of his success in mimicking Christ and deceiving Jews and Christians alike. The visual life of Antichrist inserted within the Wellcome Apocalypse depicts several other deeds of Antichrist on two facing folios, each illustrating a series of events in three registers.44 The first folio in its top register details a series of gruesome tortures against those who remain faithful to the true Christ. A man is skinned alive, another has a metal rod drilled into his skull, and others are fed to wild animals. In the middle register Antichrist’s followers celebrate as Enoch and Elijah are decapitated, and in the lower register Antichrist pretends to die and be resurrected. In the top register of the facing folio, Antichrist attempts his last impudent parody of events from the life of Christ, a pseudo-Ascension, but his blasphemy here finally ends. After attempting to rise to heaven from the Mount of Olives, Antichrist falls headlong from the arms of demons after being struck down by an angel.45 In the middle register, Enoch and Elijah reappear after Antichrist’s death to preach to those who are feasting as in the days of Noah, warning them to prepare for the return of Christ. Finally, the folio’s lower register depicts the signs of Doomsday, certain evidence that the end is imminent. Medieval eschatology included the popular belief that judgment day would be preceded by numerous cataclysmic signs that would provide warnings of the end, and there developed a tradition, attributed to St. Jerome, that cosmic and supernatural signs would warn the world of the return of Christ on each of the fifteen days before Doomsday.46 The German block-book vitae Antichristi, for example, illustrate all fifteen signs at the conclusion of their Antichrist sequence (Fig. 9) and before depicting the Last Judgment, and the Fifteen Signs of Doomsday also appear in The Prophets of Antichrist, the pageant preceding the Antichrist

44

The manuscript opening is illustrated in Carey, ed., Apocalypse, 91, no. 20. For this scene, see also Emmerson, Antichrist, fig. 11; and Wright, Art and Antichrist, illus. 50. Similar depictions of Antichrist’s fall are included in the German block-book vitae Antichristi (see Boveland, ed., Der Antichrist, 2:24), the Nuremberg Chronicle printed by Anton Koberger in 1493 (see Carey, ed., Apocalypse, 110, fig. 6), Signorelli’s Antichrist fresco at Orvieto (see Reiss, Renaissance Antichrist, fig. 4), and the early sixteenth-century Byrthe and Lyfe of Antechryst (see Emmerson, “Wynkyn de Worde’s Byrthe and Lyfe of Antechryst,” fig. 12). 46 See William Heist, The Fifteen Signs before Doomsday (East Lansing: Michigan State College Press, 1952). The signs are fully illustrated in the Oxford Vigne manuscript and in the famous Pricke of Conscience windows of All Saints, North Street, York. 45

antichrist on page and stage in the later middle ages 25

Fig. 9

play in the Chester cycle. It introduces the dramatic depiction of the false Christ of the last days just as the Old Testament prophets are often staged to introduce the plays depicting the nativity of the true Christ. These signs are enumerated by the play’s Expositor, who describes each sign and then addresses the audience, urging them to remain faithful and concluding with a warning: Nowe have I tould you, in good faye, the tokens to come before doomesdaye. God give you grace to do so aye that you them worthye bee to come to the blysse that lasteth aye. As mych as here wee and our playe, of Antechristes signes you shall assaye. Hee comes! Soone you shall see! (XXII, 333–40)

The signs of doomsday in the Chester cycle introduce the Coming of Antichrist rather than conclude it because the Prophets of Antichrist initiates the cycle’s shift from early Christian to eschatological events, preparing the audience for both Antichrist and Doomsday.

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The Coming of Antichrist concludes quickly after Antichrist orders the death of Enoch and Elijah. According to the play’s Latin rubric, Michael, holding a sword in his right hand, approaches immediately after the death of the two prophets and addresses Antichrist, sending him to the devil: Antechriste, nowe ys common this daye. Reigne no lenger nowe thou maye. Hee that hath led thee alwaye, nowe him thou must goe to. (XXIII, 625–28)

With the conclusion of his speech, Michael kills Antichrist. A midfifteenth-century Carthusian miscellany roughly contemporary with the early development of the Chester cycle represents the sequencing of events staged by the Coming of Antichrist.47 In images based on the Middle English version of the Pseudo-Methodius Revelations, the Yorkshire manuscript depicts a tyrannical Antichrist seated on a throne and ordering the death of Enoch and Elijah. Juxtaposed immediately to the right of this scene is the death of the pseudoChrist, a visual reminder of the way in which the Chester cycle links the execution of the Two Witnesses with Antichrist’s death. The miniature depicts Michael standing behind the throne of Antichrist and poking him with a long spear as he falls forward into hell. Christ watches from above, the “breath of his mouth” (2 Thess. 2:8) falling down like hail onto the doomed deceiver. The conclusion of Chester similarly shows the triumph of good over evil. After Michael wields his sword, Antichrist ludicrously cries for help from “Sathanas and Lucyfere!/Belzebub, bould batchellere!” (XXIII, 645–46), whereupon two demons emerge from hell to haul him away. This is where the Chester play briefly explains Antichrist’s parentage and devilish power, features of the tradition that receive much greater attention in the Jour du Jugement. As in the cycle of images portraying the life of Antichrist in the Wellcome Apocalypse, Enoch and Elijah then return from the dead. They praise God, an effective dramatic contrast to Antichrist’s pathetic rants as he is hauled to hell. Michael then 47 See James Hogg, An Illustrated Yorkshire Carthusian Religious Miscellany, British Library London Additional MS. 37049, Analecta Cartusiana 95 (Salzburg: Institut für Anglistik und Amerikanistik, 1981). For the depiction of Antichrist’s death, see Emmerson, “Beyond the Apocalypse,” fig. 5.8.

antichrist on page and stage in the later middle ages 27 addresses the two prophets. Noting that after their long wait in the Earthly Paradise and their combat against Antichrist they have earned “heaven-blysse” (XXIII, 717), he takes them to heaven. Their ascension ends the play, which is followed by the cycle’s final play, the Last Judgment. Although much more leisurely, the Jour du Jugement similarly links the death of Enoch and Elijah to the conclusion of Antichrist’s power. After the prophets are taken to heaven, the Jew Malaquim reports to Antichrist: I bring you dreadful news. I am being eaten up with great pain and fury, because those men you had killed the other day have come back from the dead. This is an event that you cannot keep from being known throughout the city. I can assure you that there are now a good two thousand who know about it, and who, having rejected your law, believe in Jesus Christ. This is turning into a great disaster for you. (lines 1446–55)

Antichrist boastfully brushes off this concern, claiming that their resurrection is a gimmick he has devised to root out any remaining Christians. Nevertheless, his control of the play’s action has now been terminated. St. John comes on stage to distribute vials of wrath to angels, whom God commands to “Go and spread my wrath over the earth” (line 1505; cf. Rev. 16:1). The fourth angel, holding his vial, then states: As for me, I will pour out mine over Antichrist, who proclaimed himself to be the Son of God, and who thus ridiculed the true God of all creation. His fate will indeed be horrible, and issue from the sun itself, which will become so blazing that he will be snuffed out by the uncontrollable heat. (lines 1556–63)

The angel alludes to the plague that results from the pouring out of the fourth vial of wrath, when power is given to the sun to scorch all mankind (Rev. 16:8–9). But the accompanying miniature (Fig. 10) focuses specifically on Antichrist, showing a vial being poured onto his head as he falls over backward to his death. The sun blazes

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Fig. 10

above, while Annes, Antichrist’s first Jewish supporter, watches. He finally recognizes the false Messiah’s deceit: I can see that we have been betrayed. I don’t even have the time to repent, for that God who tells no lies has already sentenced us. (lines 1570–73)

But it is too late. The play leaves the Jews hopeless even before facing their judgment. After Antichrist’s other followers mourn their perverseness and some, such as the blind man and leper, even beg forgiveness, the action shifts to heaven. Several saints and Mary now act as intercessors with Christ before the General Resurrection and judgment are staged. The movement to Doomsday thus takes place seamlessly in the Jour du Jugement as its eschatological narrative continues without break, a miniature establishing the authority of the true Christ, who reveals his wounds while angels hold the signs of the cross. Like the Chester play, in other words, the Jour du Jugement is traditional in understanding Antichrist as an eschatological figure who will appear just before the conclusion of human history, not as a generalized symbol of evil, an institution, or a despised people. Both plays thus

antichrist on page and stage in the later middle ages 29 follow a rich medieval tradition discovered in the Bible by means of vigorous exegesis, developed through numerous apocryphal and legendary accounts, depicted in rich Apocalypse manuscripts, and effectively represented in the late Middle Ages on both page and stage as vivid warnings of the trials awaiting the faithful in the Last Days.

STAGING ANTICHRIST AND THE PERFORMANCE OF MIRACLES Peter Cockett

As part of the MARCO symposium on “Spectacle and Public Performance” at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville in April of 2004, the PLS (the University of Toronto’s Medieval and Renaissance Players) performed the Chester Coming of Antichrist and George Peele’s The Old Wives Tale. I was the director of both productions that were chosen, with the theme of the conference in mind, for their spectacular content. This paper is an examination of a process: the decision-making that informed our production of Antichrist as it pertains specifically to the production and performance of miracles in medieval theatre. It will examine the significance and consequences of production choices made and those considered and rejected. On the one hand, my analysis will be specific to the play and explore the manner in which the theatrical producer of Antichrist can and should manipulate responses to the play’s miracles. This aspect of the paper addresses recent critical discussion of the play’s attitude to and treatment of theatrical signs. On the other hand, a secondary intent of this paper is to give critical perspective on the process of performancecentered research itself, offering insight into the PLS’s methodology, and the direction of our future labors. Of necessity the paper at times will take the form of a personal account of the directorial process. The PLS has been a driving force in the research of medieval and Renaissance drama through performance for over three decades.1 The company’s production of the Castle of Perseverance and their two productions of the York Cycle stand as landmark achievements in the field. The company was originally formed by participants in a

1 In this account of the company’s development I rely on David Klausner’s paper presented at the MARCO symposium, “Performing the Middle Ages: What Do We Think We Are Doing?,” and on conversations with the company chair, Alexandra F. Johnston.

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graduate seminar on medieval performance taught by Professor John Lyerle at the University of Toronto in 1964. The initials of the PLS derived from Professor Lyerle’s Seminar but the group also styled itself a Latin name the Poculi Ludique Societas that can be roughly translated as “the drinking and playing society.” The name gives an accurate impression of the spirit in which the company was formed. Initial work was characterized by wide-eyed enthusiasm as the company staged plays without concern for, or indeed awareness of, the difference between contemporary performance practice and the original performance conditions. While the performativity of the supposedly primitive medieval play texts was a revelation at the time, it quickly became apparent that research into the original performance conditions was urgently required. This led to the foundation of the REED project under the direction of Alexandra F. Johnston, an active member of PLS and now the company chair. The increasing knowledge of the historical theatrical context led to a more cautious and conservative production philosophy as the company aimed for complete authenticity to the original performance conditions. It soon became apparent, however, that knowledge of theatrical history can never be exhaustive and this realization, coupled with the influence of poststructural theory, led to the abandonment of authenticity as a goal in favor of what we now refer to as historicallyinformed performance. The PLS is presently in the process of clarifying its research criteria and production practices in this latest stage of its development. Since one cannot hope to recreate authentically a moment of theatrical history, how is the work of the company different from the work of other theatrical producers of early drama, like the Stratford Shakespeare Festival, or the RSC? Our work is distinguished from these companies by its academic context and its concern for the relationship between the play texts and their original production environment. But what implications do these differences in context and concern have for the production process? What relationship should there be between the texts of the plays, contextual research material, and the creative choices made in production? And what authority can our productions have in the scholarly community? What role, that is, can they play in developing scholarly understanding of early theatre? In the context of the ongoing company debate, MARCO’s invitation to perform Chester’s Coming of Antichrist was fortuitous and

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fortunate. Although we had produced the play relatively recently, it was still high on the company’s “wish list” due to the controversial nature of the PLS’s most recent production. Scott Moore’s production in 2001 was a radical reinterpretation of the play in which Antichrist was played as a television evangelist and the dead were dressed as comical Egyptian mummies, one of which lost a detachable arm in an extended dance sequence. The company response to this production was divided. Scott’s intention was to put the Christian beliefs behind the original under critical light, and many felt that his eclectic and postmodern approach to the play was invigorating and enlightening, arguing that it made history “perform” for a modern audience. The more conservative members of the company felt that this approach was out of keeping with the tenets of the PLS because the production departed too far from the historical context of the original. Scott’s production has since become a lightning rod of debate in the company and a regular reference point in our continuing efforts to define ourselves as a theater company and research institution. I personally favor the more conservative approach to our work. My interest in the PLS is primarily academic, and while my experience in the professional theater is essential to my process, my approach to PLS productions is distinct from my work with other companies, and the difference is one of intent. My work for PLS is primarily motivated by a desire to understand the significance of the plays in their original context. The two approaches, of course, are not exclusive. As medieval playwrights were well aware, performance of historical material is a dynamic means to bring the past into contact with the present. They approached the task with as much gusto and creativity as Scott did in his reworking of the Antichrist. My approach is more restrictive as the creative process is undertaken with constant deference to the historical context of the original. While I aim to engage the audience with the play, it is the relationship between the created live performance and my knowledge of the original performance context that particularly fascinates me and drives my work on PLS productions. MARCO’s request for a production that respected the conditions of the original performance thus matched well with my own inclinations. That the production would form part of a conference on theatrical spectacle made the project all the more attractive. I had just finished directing the Digby Mary Magdalene for the company’s Saints’

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Play Festival and had been inspired by Theresa Coletti’s keynote paper at the festival that explored the play’s engagement with the contemporary theological controversy surrounding theatrical images through a comparison with the Chester Coming of Antichrist.2 Coletti argues that both plays encode “issues that were central to practices of representing the sacred in the religious theater of late medieval England.”3 In the Digby Mary Magdalene the pagan rituals in the temple of Marseilles are burlesque inversions of Christian practice that imply a relationship between sacred images and idolatry. This implicit challenge to the spiritual efficacy of the dramatic image is juxtaposed with the numerous miracles stage-managed by Jesus in the play and most importantly with the sacrament of the Eucharist performed for Mary by the priest directly before her death.4 In Antichrist, the power of the sacrament is also juxtaposed with dramatic spectacle. Antichrist uses a series of miracles to convince the four kings that he is Christ: he raises men from the dead, he dies and resurrects himself, and he sends “forth his Spirit” (sd. 196) to the four kings once they have accepted his divinity. All this staged spectacle amounts to, in Peter W. Travis’ words, “a burlesque of the cycle itself—which has just completed its own sped-up version of Christ’s life, employing the ‘magic’ and ‘fraud’ of theatrical deception.”5 Within the play itself Antichrist’s theatrical trickery is juxtaposed with a performance of the sacrament of the Eucharist. Enoch and Elijah expose the fraudulent miracles by offering a Eucharistic host to the men raised from the dead by Antichrist. The dead men cannot bear to look at the host, Antichrist’s true nature is revealed, and the four kings convert to Christianity. The Chester dramatist has therefore set the Antichrist’s deceptive theatrical images against the Eucharistic host as sign of spiritual truth. In doing so, Travis argues that the Chester dramatist “conceded everything to the 2

“Theology, Theatricality, and the Digby Saint Mary Magdalene,” a paper presented at the PLS Saint’s Play Festival, sponsored by the Councillor Jackman Program for the Arts, Victoria College, University of Toronto, May 2003. This paper has since been published in altered form as a chapter of her latest book, Mary Magdalene and the Drama of Saints (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), pp. 190–217. I would like to thank Theresa for allowing me access to her paper prior to publication. 3 Coletti, p. 191. 4 Coletti, pp. 199–202. 5 Dramatic Design in the Chester Cycle (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982), p. 236.

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iconoclasts”6 and suggests that the Coming of Antichrist works to purify the dramatic image in preparation for the cycle’s final play of the Last Judgment. Antichrist is both master manipulator of the dramatic image and a dramatic image himself, and in performing his defeat “the play manages . . . to ‘do down’ its own adversary.”7 What survives after this comic purgation is the dramatic world intact, purified by its self-profanation, its identity and value as a ‘sign’ now to be judged in context with that other surviving and more sacred sign, the sacrament of the eucharistic Host.8

This is a persuasive argument that articulates a significant function for the play in the cycle as a whole, but the distinction between signs is not as clear-cut as he implies since the “sacred sign” of the host is also contained within the theatrical representation. Presuming it was not an actual consecrated host, then it is only the representation of such a host and thus a carnal sign of a carnal sign of a spiritual truth. The cleansing process therefore is not complete, nor could it be. Coletti addresses the semiological issue by embracing Sarah Beckwith’s analysis of the York Cycle in the context of late medieval sacramentality.9 Beckwith argues that contradictory responses to images and signs are “intrinsic to symbolic formation as such, and a component part of the sacramental culture enacted in these plays.”10 Sacramentality is a particular way of understanding the signifying process, in which “it is the change in the person, not the ritual object, that is the significant and transformative moment.”11 At Mass, therefore, the Eucharistic host attains its spiritual efficacy through the response of the congregation. The fact that the “ritual object” of the host in Coming of Antichrist is a representation of the Eucharist is less problematic in the context of a sacramental culture that embraces the difference between sign and signified. However, since the spiritual efficacy of the ritual object is dependent on its reception, how did the production generate the appropriate response in 6

Ibid., p. 240. Ibid. 8 Ibid. 9 “Sacrum Signum: Sacramentality and Dissent in the York’s Theatre of Corpus Christi,” Criticism and Dissent in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). 10 Ibid., p. 265. 11 Ibid., p. 266. 7

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its audience? And how did it ensure the audience’s response to the Antichrist’s miracles was distinct from its response to the prophets’ presentation of the Eucharist? Directing The Coming of Antichrist offered me the chance to explore these questions in practice and from the point of view of the theatrical producer. Richard K Emmerson’s essay, “Contextualizing Performance: The Reception of the Chester Antichrist,” explores possible changes in the reception of the play over the course of its history. Drawing on reception theory, Emmerson argues that, as the cultural valency of Antichrist shifted, the consequent change in the community of readers that made up the audience would have led to divergent readings of the play in performance. My work, in contrast, focuses on the initial “readers” of the text—those responsible for the theatrical production,12 and how their choices might influence the secondary readers in the audience. My production process was thus informed by a specific question: is it possible to distinguish between miracles on the stage intended to represent spiritual truth and the deceptive versions of those miracles presented by Antichrist? My primary goal in the production was to maintain an awareness of the diabolical intent behind the Antichrist’s rhetoric and his performance of miracles, and this called for production choices that removed ambivalence from the signifying process. Given complete artistic freedom, this would have been relatively easy to achieve. As the example of Scott Moore’s previous production revealed, it is possible to change radically the intended meaning of a play through manipulation of the production process. This is one of the joys and attractions of classical theatre, but in my production I was intent on exploring the role theatrical production can play in influencing the interpretation of its signs while respecting the text of the play, contextual information on contemporary representation of Antichrist, and what we can deduce and presume about the didactic intentions of the playwright. This attitude to the text and historical context limited the freedom of my creative response to the play, but, I hope, 12 See Marvin Carlson, “Audience and the Reading of Performance,” Interpreting the Theatrical Past: Essays in the Historiography of Performance, ed. Thomas Postlewait and Bruce A. McGonachie (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1989), pp. 82–98. Carlson refers to the “two readings” of the play involved in theatrical communication, both of which constitute what Tony Bennett refers to as “productive activations” of meaning (p. 86). See also Tony Bennett, “Text, Readers, Reading Formations,” Literature and History 16, no. 1 (1983): 3–17.

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increased the value of the production as scholarly investigation. The following analysis describes my production process and the principles that informed my decision-making. It examines the choices to be made in any theatrical representation of the Antichrist, and considers the effect of those choices on the reception of his miracles and the distinction between sacred and false signs. Scott’s choice to have Antichrist played as a television evangelist was a good one in that it served his purpose and responded to cues in the text. Antichrist is his own evangelist. The play opens with a sermon advocating his power and righteousness with specific, if misguided, reference to scriptural authority. The connotations of teleevangelism, at least for an audience of liberal Torontonians, created a critical relationship between the figure of Antichrist and contemporary Christianity that belittled both. This served Scott’s didactic goals, but it clearly works against the intent of the original performance. But how exactly would Antichrist have been represented in late medieval Chester? And might there have been a similar ironic relationship between the representation of Antichrist and his words and actions on the stage? Richard K. Emmerson’s extensive work on the figure of Antichrist in medieval art and literature has illuminated the multivalency and the semantic temporality of the Antichrist as cultural sign.13 With a risk of oversimplification, interpretations of the Antichrist can be reduced to three basic options: the Antichrist is either a devil, a man, or a metaphor for a social institution such as the Catholic Church, as he became to Protestants during the Reformation. Emmerson argues that later performances of the Chester play would have identified Antichrist with the Catholic church,14 but for our production we adopted David Mills’s edition of the play, which is based on the early Peniarth manuscript and imagined a

13 Richard Kenneth Emmerson, Antichrist in the Middle Ages: A Study of Medieval Apocalypticism, Art, and Literature (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1981). Emmerson has also explored the manner in which the Chester Coming of Antichrist participates in contemporary interpretations of Antichrist: “‘Nowe ys common this daye’: Enoch and Elias, Antichrist, and the Structure of the Chester Cycle,” in The Chester Mystery Cycle: A Casebook, ed. Kevin J. Harty (New York: Garland Publishing, 1993), pp. 171–198. Pages cited refer to this edition. The essay was originally printed in Homo, Memento Finis: The Iconongraphy of Just Judgment in Medieval Art and Drama, ed. David Bevington (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute, Western Michigan University, 1985), pp. 89–120. 14 “Contextualizing Performance: The Reception of the Chester Antichrist,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 29.1 (1999): 106–111.

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pre-Reformation production, thus excluding the connection between Antichrist and Catholicism. In this early version of the text Emmerson asserts with considerable authority that Antichrist is represented as a man.15 Although this is the interpretive option that we finally settled upon as the basis of our production, the alternative possibilities warrant further consideration. The representation of Antichrist as a devil carries least textual and contextual authority. The prophets Enoch and Elijah use multiple epithets in reference to the Antichrist, many of which identify him directly or closely with the devil, and yet they do not give us a clear idea of his appearance. At line 299 Elijah informs the kings that he is “the Devil,” and Enoch refers to him as “a fiend, comen to annoy” (477) and “false fiend” at line 336. Later they refer to him less directly as the “verray Devil’s limb” (341), and “the Devil’s own nurry” (354). The prophets’ references connect the Chester Antichrist with the popular interpretation of Antichrist’s heritage as the son of the devil and the Whore of Babylon.16 In fact, the first Devil explicitly takes credit for parenting Antichrist “in clean whoredom” (674). In illustrations of this story, however, although the devil features prominently, often hovering above or behind Antichrist, Antichrist usually appears as a man.17 Emmerson argues that even those manuscripts that “envision him as a normal man, emphasize his very close relationship with the devil,” alerting the reader to his “double nature.”18 For example, the Bodleian Douce 134 depicts Antichrist with the “the face of a young man,” but above his head “sits a grinning red-faced, two horned devil’s head.”19 The close visual association of Antichrist and devil was appealing to me as it would serve the objective of my production. To represent Antichrist as a devil one would give the actor a devilish mask, of which there are many in the PLS storerooms, and the mask would clearly indicate Antichrist’s diabolical nature even as he attempted to persuade the kings that he was the true Christ. This interpretation would complement the strategy of the playwright in establishing the significance of the Antichrist for the audience before the play 15 Ibid., 98. All references to the play are from David Mills, The Chester Mystery Cycle (East Lansing: Colleagues Press, 1992). 16 Emmerson, Antichrist in the Middle Ages, pp. 79–83. 17 Ibid., pp. 126–7. 18 Ibid., p. 127. 19 Ibid.

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begins: the play was preceded by The Prophets of Antichrist that tells us clearly who he is and what he is going to do. In principle, there should be no doubt in the audience’s mind that his words are lies and his miracles illusions. The use of an actor in devil-mask would maintain focus on the Antichrist as devil regardless of his rhetorical efforts to persuade us to the contrary. As a counter product of this choice, the kings would seem more credulous and potentially ludicrous generating a laughter that could serve the didactic intent by ridiculing the follies of gullible sinners. The text does not offer indisputable evidence on the nature of Antichrist’s costume, and as we know that Christ was sometimes performed with a face masked or painted gold, it remains a possibility that Antichrist may have been masked in some way.20 Enoch tells us that Antichrist “sits so grizzly and so grim” (342), a description that would be supported by an actor wearing a “grizzly” devilish mask. We considered creating a double mask with a golden front that could be removed to reveal the devil “within.” If the golden front only partly covered the devil’s mask, leaving his horns for example uncovered, the audience would be constantly aware of the Antichrist’s “double nature.” This remains to me an intriguing possibility that would have produced an informative reception dynamic for the Antichrist and his miracles. Ultimately, however, there was not enough textual or contextual support for such an interpretation. The prophets connect Antichrist with the devil, but they also delineate an alternative relationship between Antichrist as man, and the devil as his master and the source of his power. Elijah, for example, says he works “through the Fiend’s craft.” Elijah’s reference to “this man” cited above is also strong evidence for this interpretation, as are his following lines: “Thou callest thee ‘King’ and ‘Lord of all’?/A fiend is thee within!” (466–7). Elijah’s distinction between the claims Antichrist has made and the truth “within” asserts a difference between the human appearance of Antichrist and his devilish identity lurking beneath. On this evidence, we decided to represent Antichrist as a man. Having decided that Antichrist was to appear as a man, however, we were faced with a further decision: what kind of a man? Again, the source material offers more than one option for his depiction. 20 The post-Reformation Banns in Mills’s Chester Mystery Cycle refer to the “facegilt” (201) used by the actors playing the “Godhead” (199).

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Antichrist is pictured as a royal tyrant and as a pseudo-Christ, and the Chester text implies that he is both.21 Following his opening Latin stanza, Antichrist introduces himself as follows: All ledes in land now be light that will be ruled throughout the right. Your saviour now in your sight here you may safely see. Messias, Christ, and most of might, that in the Law was you behight, all Mankind to joy to dight is comen, for I am he. (9–16)

This is apparently the pseudo-Christ, a bringer of “joy” not violence, but in the fourth stanza he complains about the impostor “Jesu” (26), who was “slain through virtue of [his] sond” (31). He is therefore a “‘Messias’” that brings joy and violence. His tyrannical nature becomes increasingly apparent as the play proceeds, but what impression should we give of him when he first enters the stage? What should he wear? Again, the text gives us no clear indicators on this issue. Even in the reference to the Antichrist sitting “so grizzly and so grim,” it is unclear whether Enoch is describing his fierce appearance or his attitude. Since contemporary art depicts Antichrist both as pseudo-Christ and royal tyrant, and given the absence of local art depicting these scenes, the matter remains open to speculation.22 The evidence in support of Antichrist as tyrannical king is perhaps the strongest. Antichrist’s repeated reference to his “might” and his “posty” are signs of his pride and power, but that power is often quite explicitly spiritual rather than material power. He threatens the prophets with physical violence, promising to bring them “sorrow and care” (364), saying they will “hastily hong” (373) and that he will “make” them “lout full low” (391). However, this tyrannical attitude is matched, if not exceeded, by the prophets own threats of violence. Enoch, for example, says: “I would thy body were from thy head/twenty mile from it laid,/till I it brought again!” (368–370). If prophets can speak in this way, then so could a pseudo-Christ. Antichrist’s final violence ultimately reveals him as the tyrant: the stage direction tells us that he kills the kings and the prophets with “the sword ” (sd. 626), 21

For description of the variety of representations of Antichrist, see Emmerson, Antichrist in the Middle Ages, pp. 124–145. 22 Emmerson, “Nowe is common this daye,” p. 173.

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but this is the first mention of a sword in the text. Has Antichrist carried the sword from the beginning of the play? Does he pick it up at this moment as he finally reveals his true nature? Again, although the evidence implies that Antichrist appears as a royal tyrant, it is not conclusive. Taking his cue from the pre-Reformation Banns which describe the Dyer’s guild’s pageant wagon as a “wurthy cariage/that is A thing of grett costage,”23 David Mills imagines the play would have been “costumed with some splendour.”24 This interpretation of the evidence implies an Antichrist dressed in some material grandeur, a royal tyrant rather than a pseudo-Christ. This is the choice that we made, but the evidence is still not decisive. It would be possible, for example, to dress Antichrist in humble attire and set him upon a regally appointed carriage. This alternative is also a compelling one that deserves further consideration. Travis and Emmerson have shown how the play invites comparison between Antichrist and the Christ that appeared in the previous pageants of the cycle.25 Antichrist performs an imitatio christi and his life follows exegetical tradition by imitating the saint’s vita. At the same time, the dramatist clearly establishes the biblical and diabolical provenance of the Antichrist in the previous play The Prophets of the Antichrist. This pageant finishes with the line: “he comes, soon you shall see!”26 and dressing Antichrist in identical fashion to Christ would have created a compelling moment for the audience that had witnessed the preceding pageants, creating a double vision, challenging them to distinguish the true Christ from the impostor, and leading them to question the veracity of the theatrical image in just the manner that Travis suggests.27 The extent of this effect in performance is yet to be tested and in my mind warrants a further production. My own production choice was informed by my desire to work against potential ambivalence in the representation of the play’s signs and thus we dressed the Antichrist as a royal tyrant. This choice, therefore, while it was influenced by the evidence in the text, and by the contextual evidence of the pre-Reformation Banns, was 23 In Chester, ed. Lawrence M. Clopper, Records of Early English Drama (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1979), p. 38. 24 The Chester Mystery Cycle, p. 388. 25 Travis, pp. 238–41. Emmerson, “Nowe ys common.” 26 The Prophets of the Antichrist, in David Mills, line 340. 27 See Travis’s discussion of this moment and its significance, Dramatic Design, pp. 230–1.

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ultimately motivated by the criteria for the production. The choice served to maintain a distinction between the false miracles of Antichrist and the true miracle of the Eucharist. I cast Kyle Macdonald as Antichrist, an actor with a powerful physical presence and commanding voice. Our costume designer and Artistic Director, Linda Phillips, dressed him in a richly embroidered red tunic and draped him in a black velvet cloak, creating an image of opulence and material power. He also prominently carried a sword and when he first referred to himself as “Christus, vester salvator” (8) he raised the sword in the air. The stage image thus undermined his rhetorical claim. When Antichrist claimed to be Christ, the bringer of joy, Antichrist’s appearance and domineering presence on the stage created an ironic relationship between word and image. And when he articulated his material power the theatrical image supported his words, confirming the didactic truth of his identity and his intentions. The costume decisions identified Antichrist as a mortal and material king using arts of deception to persuade the kings and the audience that he is Christ. The costume worked therefore in the same way as his name works in the text, or as the title does, creating an interpretive frame that continuously refers the audience to his diabolical intentions. This is especially significant when it is noted that the first character to name him Antichrist in the play is St Michael right at the end. In performance, the audiences are less aware of play titles and unaware of speech headings and Antichrist’s royal costume served as a constant reminder of the diabolical identity of this man who claimed to be Christ. My work with Kyle on the development of his character followed a similar direction but took an unexpected turn. To serve my objective, I wanted to make the Antichrist appear suspect at all times and I therefore encouraged Kyle to give his evangelism the quality of a cheesy magician or a second-hand car salesman. Kyle resisted this direction, feeling that it undermined his character, removing the serious intent behind Antichrist’s words. My concept had much in common with Leslie Howard Martin’s interpretation of the play as an antic interlude in which Antichrist plays the ridiculous “noisy tyrant” in the mold of Herod.28 Kyle’s interpretation of the role has more 28

“Comic Eschatology in the Chester Coming of Antichrist,” Comparative Drama 5, no. 3 (1971): 169.

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in common with Travis, who questions how ridiculous Herod would have been in performance and argues for a more serious and disturbing Antichrist. The play’s text supports both interpretations and over the rehearsal process we gradually worked our way towards a creative compromise that responded to the text while maintaining my production objective as far as possible. The playwright’s comic intent is indicated most tellingly by the presence of a “gag” that still occurs in comic routines today. Confronted by the belligerent prophets, Antichrist asks his Counsellor for help. The Counsellor, a little confused by his master’s sudden uncertainty, simply suggests that Antichrist should use his power to curse them because “those whom thou cursest, they are but dead” (439). Antichrist responds: The same I purposed, lieve thou me. All things I know through my posty. But yet thy wit I thought to see, what was thine intent. (442–5)

Which is as much to say: “That’s what I was planning to do, I know everything of course, and I was just checking to see if you were smart enough to think of it!” The presence of one of the oldest jokes in the book is an indicator of a degree of comic intent in the writing of the play. However, the text is not exactly full of such gags. Much of the play is taken up with theological argument and in our attempts to maintain my comic interpretation of the role we had to work hard to discover opportunities for humor in the text. For example, we created comic business around the Antichrist’s citation of scripture. Each time he quoted from the Bible we had his Counsellor check the reference in a Bible he was carrying. Finding the citation was correct, he gave an approving nod to Antichrist who smiled in self-satisfaction. When Antichrist miscites his reference to Daniel at line 56, the Counsellor started to correct him only to be silenced by a withering gaze from his master. Although this constitutes a creative addition to the text, I believe it was in keeping with the spirit of the original. When played as part of the entire cycle, Antichrist’s references to scripture would have reminded the audience of the preceding pageant The Prophets of Antichrist in which the biblical prophets are brought to life on the stage and foretell the arrival of Antichrist on earth and in the succeeding pageant. There is an ironic relationship between the Antichrist’s use of the Bible and the Chester

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playwright’s, since Antichrist is using scripture to prove his godhead, while the playwright used it to establish the exegetical evidence for Antichrist’s diabolical provenance. Our creative business with the Counsellor recreated this irony for a modern audience that had not witnessed The Prophets of Antichrist. Antichrist was attempting to use the Bible to establish his identity as Christ, but we made it clear that this was showmanship rather than exegesis. Antichrist quoted scripture with the smug satisfaction of an egotistical scholar, and expected applause and approval in response. The comic irony again undermined Antichrist’s rhetorical efforts and sustained the audience’s awareness of him as Antichrist rather than Christ. We took a similar approach to the performance of Antichrist’s miracles. The parameters of our production limited our ability to recreate the special effects likely used in the original. Medieval theater practitioners could call on elaborate pyrotechnics to represent the scenes of the Pentecost and Antichrist’s imitation of the same. We had used modern pyrotechnics for the miracles in Mary Magdalene but felt that it would be unadvisable to bring explosive devices into the US at the present time. Instead, Antichrist’s imitation of the Pentecost was achieved using red spotlights. Antichrist summoned his power using a mock incantation and then pointed to four lights in quick succession which illuminated the awaiting kings. Antichrist’s pointing brought the audience’s attention to the stage mechanics behind the miracle and Antichrist was thus represented as a showman and deliberate manipulator of theatrical signs.29 The simple and self-conscious use of lighting served our goals but by medieval standards it was relatively unspectacular and we wanted to have at least one miracle depend on an elaborate stage effect. To this purpose we created an extra miracle that is implied by Antichrist’s words, but not indicated in stage directions. Antichrist says: Now will I turn, all through my might, trees down, the roots upright— that is marvel to my sight— and fruit growing upon. (81–4)

This marvel is depicted in many contemporary illustrations but the lack of stage direction leaves it unclear whether it was part of the 29 In retrospect, a similar effect could have been achieved without resorting to modern stage lighting by creating a clumsy imitation of the Pentecost by using pieces of red tissue on the end of stiff wires, for example.

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Chester pageant. We had already decided that the cross needed for the Old Wives Tale to establish a location for Erestus would be on stage for Antichrist to reduce the amount of stage management needed between the shows.30 This gave us an opportunity we could not resist.31 We rigged the cross so that on Antichrist’s command, and with a tug of a rope from backstage, it could invert. We attached a small leafy tree to its back, which helped establish the country setting in Old Wives Tale, but could also represent the inverted tree of Antichrist’s marvel. The effect was surprising and spectacular and was always met with a round of applause. Kyle encouraged this response by approaching the audience with arms outstretched and a large smile, inviting their approval. The fact that it was a cross as well as a tree that was inverted made the anti-Christian nature of the miracle apparent, and Antichrist’s delight in his own showmanship exposed the miracle as a piece of theatrical trickery. The remaining miracles were relatively easy to execute. The raising of the dead only calls for two actors to appear out of a grave or tomb. However, the style in which this action is performed can create radically different effects. Our dead were so decrepit that they could barely walk and spoke in creaky “horror movie” voices; only the gullible kings would be fooled by such a miracle. The effect of Antichrist’s death is also dependent on his performance style. Kyle performed his death as high melodrama mixed with a heavy dose of slapstick. Antichrist’s lines support such an approach: “I die, I die, now I am dead,” and we added lighting and sound effects to exaggerate the effect. Before dying, Antichrist looked up at the lighting box as he performed his mock incantation. Each “I die” was then timed with thunder and lightening. After the second “I die,” Antichrist fell to the ground as if dead, at which point the mischievous stage manager, otherwise known as God, released a further bolt of lightning which jolted Antichrist up from the ground to shout his final “now I am dead” with his fist raised in the air. One final bolt of lightning then struck him back to the ground. Our Antichrist was not even in control of his own miracles and was thus 30

A stage direction in The Old Wives Tale indicates the presence of a cross. It reads: “Enter the OLD MAN at the cross.” George Peele, The Old Wife’s Tale, ed. Charles Whitworth (London: A&C Black, 1996), sd. after 133. 31 This idea arose in rehearsals and was first suggested by Kyle Macdonald. I would like to take this opportunity to credit his creativity and dedication in bringing Antichrist to life on the stage.

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further exposed as a fraud. For his resurrection Antichrist emerged out of the tomb wrapped in a shroud with arms outstretched in imitation of a comic book mummy and making noises to match. He approached the kings, suddenly regained his vigour, threw off the shroud and cried a joyous: “I rise!” The effect of the miracles was comic and while they fooled the gullible kings the audience could see through the deceptive tactics used by Antichrist. Our production choices therefore ensured that the miracles remained only comically grotesque versions of Christ’s miracles not to be mistaken for the real thing or even confused with theatrical representations of the real thing. Clearly no claim for authenticity can be made for the production choices described above, but it is evident that within the parameters of medieval theater, the theatrical producer could have created similar comic business to maintain a distinction between the kinds of theatrical signs that he was producing. In contrast to the comic grotesquery of Antichrist’s miracles, the prophets’ Eucharistic miracle was performed with simplicity and sincerity. Enoch carefully produced a host from within a pouch and held it gently before his fellow prophet. Elijah then blessed it reverently, and consecrated it with the words: ‘In nomine patris’ that all hath wrought ‘Et Filii Virginus’ that dear us bought ‘Et Spiritus Sancti’ is all my thought, ‘One God and Persons three.’ (573–6)

There is no indication in the text at this point for stage action. The first Dead simply responds in horror: “Alas! Put that bread out of my sight!” (579). The second Dead tells us that the “bread to [him] is so bright” (584), but there is no stage direction indicating a theatrical special effect to support his perception. We considered creating a Eucharist that could be lit from within but chose to take the lack of stage direction as an indication that no special effect would have been used. Although this decision was made out of respect for the text, in retrospect it limited the effectiveness of the experiment. The theatrical trickery of the Antichrist was now juxtaposed with a straightforward performance of the sacrament of the Eucharist and not with the theatrical representation of a visible miracle, as would have been seen elsewhere in the cycle in the original production. Our choice helped maintain a distinction between true sign and false but the true sign was not spectacular. The issue of how the origi-

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nal production might have distinguished, say, Christ’s Pentecost from Antichrist’s, remains unresolved. Might it have been possible to create a truly stunning effect for the Eucharist that filled the audience with wonder and a sense of mystery? How would this have redefined the nature of theatrical signs in the cycle? These questions and possibilities establish the need for further performance-centered research and I will return to them at the end of this paper. In our production, the comic interpretation of Antichrist’s ministry did serve therefore to expose Antichrist’s spectacular signs as fraudulent, but a comic interpretation of Antichrist is not sustainable throughout. Kyle’s reluctance to play Antichrist solely as a cheesy magician or secondhand car salesman was a sensitive response to the text and served as an important check on my research agenda. Performance is a powerful interpretive tool and can be used to make a text more or less say whatever we want it to say. Anthony Gash is alert to the interpretive power of performance in his assessment of the subversive possibilities of Mankind.32 This potential, however, can easily undermine the value of performance-centered historical research. Experimentation and imagination are key to our undertaking but unless they are exercised conservatively, with respect for the structure of the text as a whole and for the contextual data available on its original production, the value of the productions as research is substantially diminished. The production choices outlined above were made to test a theory about the producers’ ability to affect the reception of theatrical signs. They were made in the spirit of experimentation, but they were also made cautiously and we remained open to the pressures of the text. As we rehearsed, it became clear that there was simply not enough comic material in the text itself to maintain interest through the entire play. Furthermore, the slaughter of the kings and the prophets at the end, although it could be funny, clearly should not be. Kyle’s real concern was that the intention behind Antichrist’s rhetoric and spectacle should not be trivialized. A cheesy magician wants to entertain his audience, a secondhand car salesman wants to sell cars, but Antichrist wants to bring mankind to damnation. The stakes are a little higher. The rhetorical battle with the prophets is by far the most difficult part 32 “Carnival Against Lent: The Ambivalence of Medieval Drama,” in Medieval Literature: Criticism, Ideology, and History, ed. David Aers (Brighton: Harvester, 1986), pp. 74–98.

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of the play to bring off in performance, since (aside from an attempted joke about the Trinity) the dialogue is a heated but rather repetitive theological debate. Attempts to inject humor into this section failed to maintain interest, a sure sign that we were working against the intentions of the text. This section became more engaging, however, when all parties engaged with the consequences of their debate and thereby turned the theological discourse into a dramatic struggle for power.33 Allowing Kyle to develop the serious intent behind the Antichrist’s performance changed the dynamics of the comedy. He no longer appeared quite as ridiculous since his antics had a serious purpose. Kyle demanded that his character be taken seriously and this demand was extended to the audience as Kyle directed his powers of persuasion towards them from the outset of the play. Martin argues that Antichrist does not address the audience directly until after the prophets arrive,34 but the opening line of the play is inclusive: “All ledes in lond now be light.” “All ledes” is an oddly generic term to use if his words are directed only to the four kings.35 The lack of specificity implies Antichrist is addressing the audience and this interpretation had significant consequences for the production. Martin believes that there would have been an ironic distance between audience and Antichrist, and that he would have been the object of their mocking laughter.36 In our production, Antichrist attempted to charm the audience, to seduce them to his side, at the same time that he seduced the kings. Our production choices aimed to encourage the audience to separate themselves from the gullible kings on the stage, but allowing Antichrist access to the audience disrupted this effect. Antichrist was charming, and while often ridiculous, his miracles were fun. The series of comic theatrical spectacles staged to convince the kings of his power, also entertained the audience, and while 33 This really only worked in our performance in Tennessee when I finally released the prophets from the pressure to maintain a degree of Christ-like passivity and allowed them to be as threatening and aggressive as Antichrist. 34 “Comic Eschatology,” 172–3. 35 In fact, the opening four stanzas reveal a spatial and temporal flexibility. His lines appear to be addressed to the Christian audience of Chester and the four kings who are imagined as existing some time in the apocalyptic future. For example, when he refers to Jesus as “one who ligged him here,” where is “here”? Are we to imagine he is speaking in Jerusalem, or is he referring to the performance of Jesus’s crucifixion recently witnessed in the streets of Chester? The answer, most likely, is both. 36 “Comic Eschatology,” 173–4.

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they may see through his illusions, his charisma and entertainment value encouraged them to embrace him. I am relying here on conversations with audience members and especially on class discussion with my undergraduate students.37 On the whole, the distinction between the vacuity of the Antichrist’s miracles and the substance of the Eucharistic miracle was clear to the audience and I had thus achieved my intended effect. However, most audience members surveyed admitted that they were drawn to Antichrist all the same. To a certain extent this can be attributed to the inclinations of a contemporary and largely non-Christian audience, but further discussion revealed that it was also due to the charismatic power of the actor playing the role. I had students report that they found Antichrist so charismatic that they were entirely disinterested in the “drier” prophets and wanted Antichrist to beat St. Michael at the end. However, the most interesting response came from a practicing Christian who felt that Antichrist was directly challenging his faith, and while he was aware of Antichrist’s charismatic appeal, he felt that it was his duty to resist him. This student’s experience is comparable to that imagined by Travis where the audience is called on to exercise “all the powers of human discrimination.”38 However, since the deception of Antichrist’s miracles was apparent and the audience was repeatedly reminded of Antichrist’s true identity and the actual motivation behind his words, the audience was not really called upon to discriminate true sign from false: our production choices had done much of that work already. And yet, the spectators were subject to the persuasive charisma of Antichrist’s physical presence. For my Christian student, the truth was readily apparent, but he still had to resist the charismatic appeal of the liar on stage. The play, therefore, did not call upon his powers of discrimination, but it did call on the strength of his faith. Because of limited historical evidence, no single production, and indeed, no single argument about a production, can ever be definitive. Performance choices of necessity will remain partly speculative, but the performance-centred research of the PLS can still play a crucial role in the effort to recover the theatrical past. Our production, I believe, revealed that while one cannot remove the ambiguity from 37

I would like to thank students of ENG332Y: English Drama to 1642, class of 2004, for their insightful responses to the production. 38 Travis, p. 235.

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the representation of miracles in this play, particular choices can be used to encourage a high degree of distinction between false miracles and true. That said, this would have been far more difficult to maintain if we had chosen to use a special effect to represent the Eucharist. Since the cycle as a whole contains many such divinely inspired miracles, it remains to be discovered how elaborate spectacle used to represent true miracles might be distinguished from Antichrist’s. Furthermore, my experience with elaborate stage effects in Mary Magdalene tells me that audiences are far more likely to applaud the ingenuity of the effect than appreciate its spiritual significance. The challenge presented by Sarah Beckwith’s understanding of the sacramentality of theater is to create theatrical miracles that encourage a spiritual transformation in the beholder. I am left with a desire to produce the play again and find a model of performance that allows me to experiment with the effect of different production choices in front of an audience. The PLS has now instituted a yearly workshop to facilitate such experimentation. The play could be performed on alternate nights with Antichrist in a mask, dressed as Christ, and as a tyrant. We might feature a special effect for the Eucharist one night and use our simpler version on another. This experimental approach could be coupled with a more structured assessment of audience response. Ideally, of course, the production should be seen as part of a performance of the entire cycle.39 The discoveries of my production of Antichrist are therefore, clearly provisional. However, I believe they indicate that neither Martin’s comic interpretation of the play, nor Travis’s interpretation of the play as a deliberate challenge to the signifying process of religious theater itself, are fully satisfactory. Antichrist is comic at times, but an entirely comic interpretation is not supportable; and while the play does provide much meat for iconoclastic arguments, the producer of the play need not, as Travis implies, concede “everything to the iconoclasts.”

39 The Chester Cycle is on the company’s “wish list” of major productions, although as yet there are no concrete plans. Please visit our website for news on upcoming productions and conferences at http://www.chass.utoronto.ca/~plspls.

“NOTHING MORE NEDEFUL”: POLITICS AND THE RHETORIC OF ACCOMMODATION IN QUEEN ELIZABETH I’S CORONATION PROCESSION Robert E. Stillman

You know Nahum Tate wrote King Lear in 1681 and his improvements took the form (besides a happy ending) of reducing the occurrences of the word ‘if ’ from 247 to 33. —Anne Carson, Beauty of the Husband Your if is the only peacemaker; much virtue in if. —William Shakespeare, As You Like It

On 14 January 1559, the day before her coronation, Elizabeth Tudor made a royal passage through the streets of London. The pageants organized for the occasion pay spectacular tribute to the authority of the new monarch whose political credentials they everywhere enthusiastically but anxiously advertise. The enthusiasm for the new Protestant Queen was tempered by anxiety about the precariousness of her position. A young female sovereign opposed by powerful Catholic adversaries at home and abroad, challenged by a patronizing nobility, in charge of a state forever on the razor’s edge of bankruptcy and civil war, with no standing army and no organized police force, had great need of political reinforcement. To secure that reinforcement, Elizabeth turned early and late in her reign to the rhetorical talents of her humanistically trained advisors, courtiers, and poets.1 History demanded it. Elizabeth’s coronation passage is a model of humanist rhetorical display. Its pageants are splendidly persuasive vehicles for enlisting the support of the citizenry for the crown; they are celebrations of the Queen and her sovereignty; and they represent a sustained effort on the part of its organizers to give salutary advice to the new monarch. Its principal rhetorical motives are those of persuading, 1 For Elizabeth’s political vulnerability at the outset of her reign, see Stephen Alford, The Early Elizabethan Polity: William Cecil and the British Succession Crisis, 1558–1569 (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1998), and Stephen Greenblatt, “Invisible Bullets: Renaissance Authority and Its Subversion,” Glyph 8 (1981), 40–61.

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celebrating, and advising, and these diverse motives combine to present the appearance of a unified rhetorical display. “Blessing tonges” speak for “true hertes” in a single act of homage to Elizabeth. At the foundation of that act of homage is the promise that Elizabeth, as Truth the daughter of Time and bearer of the Word, will make salvation from the chaos of recent English history available to all.2 The rhetoric that informs The Quenes Majesties Passage represents the ideology of the Elizabethan state at the moment of its inception and derives its authority direct from the verbum dei. As such, it constitutes an essential component of what Jacques Lacan and his most influential political student, Louis Althusser, might call the symbolic order of Elizabethan England, the language of power that (in Lacanian terms) subjects and determines the desires of individual citizens in accordance to its demands. From this vantage, Elizabeth’s coronation procession emerges as a ritualized portrayal of the imaginary relations between the monarch and her subjects that present themselves as if they depict the deeper, invisible realities of social existence.3 However, if the Passage provides thereby what can be conceived in theoretical terms as a map of the culture’s political unconscious, it is a map whose topography is shaped by the historically specific linguistic assumptions of the English humanists. Awareness about

2 The Quenes Maiesties Passage through the Citie of London to Westminster the Day before her Coronacion, ed. James M. Osborn (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1960), p. 29. For a modern spelling, full critical edition of the Passage, complete with a comprehensive scholarly introduction, see Germaine Warkentin’s The Queen’s Majesty’s Passage & Related Documents, assisted by John Carmi Parsons (Toronto: Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, 2004). For a recent study contrasting Mulcaster’s version of the Queen’s passage with the rival accounts of the Mantuan ambassador and a Roman Catholic Merchant Taylor, see Sandra Logan, “Making History: The Rhetorical and Historical Occasion of Elizabeth Tudor’s Coronation Entry,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies, 31 no. 2 (2001), 251–82. For studies of the Passage in relation to previous coronation displays, see especially: Sydney Anglo, Spectacle, Pageantry, and Early Tudor Policy (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969); David M. Bergeron, English Civic Pageantry, 1558–1642 (London: Edward Arnold, 1971); Jean Wilson, Entertainments for Elizabeth I (Totowa, NJ: Rowman and Littlefield, 1980), and Dale Hoak, “The Coronations of Edward VI, Mary I, and Elizabeth I, and the Transformation of the Tudor Monarchy,” in Westminster Abbey Reformed 1540–1640, ed. C. S. Knighton and Richard Mortimer (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003), 114–51. See too Richard L. DeMolen, “Richard Mulcaster and Elizabethan Pageantry,” SEL 14, no. 2 (Spring 1974), 209–22 and David M. Bergeron, “Elizabeth’s Coronation Entry (1559): New Manuscript Evidence,” ELR 8, no. 1 (Winter 1978), 3–8. 3 See Louis Althusser, “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses” in Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays, trans. Ben Brewster (New York and London: Monthly Review Press, 1971), pp. 127–86.

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those assumptions gives both better historical substance to abstract Lacanian discourse about the symbolic order (providing a specific cultural context for understanding how such an order functions) and an historical corrective to theoretically inflexible claims about the determining power of ideologies.4 As Elizabeth assumes a plurality of roles within the Passage’s script, as subject of its celebratory rhetoric, object of its rhetorical persuasions, and spectacularly independent reader of its advisory content, she at once illuminates the growing political importance of humanist hermeneutics and the real complexity of an early modern culture that resists the simplifications sometimes imposed upon it by postmodern theory. The rhetorical work of celebrating, persuading and advising proceeds so urgently in The Quenes Majesties Passage not as a confident icon of the state’s power to determine subjection to its authority, or (to use sixteenthcentury parlance) as an image of the power of words to constrain things. By contrast, such rhetoric achieves meaning and urgency precisely because of those shadows of uncertainty that darken the labors of its humanist makers—precisely because of those makers’ consciousness about their own lack of determinative power to constrain by words the realm of things, either London’s civic world and its citizens or still more vitally that Queen who would not be subjected.5 Celebration, persuasion, and advice are necessary precisely because words have no determinative power. In that conditional, uncertain 4 For a critique of Althusser, at once sympathetic to his concept of ideology and critical of its untestable denial of all agency to individuals, see Michel Pecheux, Language, Semantics, and Ideology, trans. Harbans Nagpal (London: Macmillan, 1982), pp. 133–70. For an extension of Althusserian theory to cultural and literary analysis, see Frederic Jameson, The Political Unconscious: Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act (Ithaca, NY: Cornell Univ. Press, 1981). 5 See Mark Breitenberg’s influential critique of the Passage’s sustained preoccupation with words and things, “ ‘. . . the hole matter opened’: Iconic Representation and Interpretation in ‘The Quenes Majesties Passage’,” Criticism 28, no. 1 (1986): 1–25. Drawing upon Foucault’s now familiar account of “the Renaissance episteme,” Breitenberg characterizes the Passage as an example of “iconic representation,” in which a “natural” language of similitude and correspondence reflects and thereby sustains similitude and correspondence in the hierarchy of the state. In iconic representation, “language resembles rather than signifies” and it does so transparently, copiously, and unproblematically. Breitenberg’s emphasis on the iconic character of the Passage complements Clifford Geertz’s attention to its charismatic quality as the foundation of the cult of the imperial virgin, Local Knowledge: Further Essays in Interpretive Anthropology (New York: Basic Books, 1983), pp. 121–46. For a variety of more recent critics, the Passage has been interpreted less as an example of iconic representation than as an instance of pragmatic political rhetoric. Richard C. McCoy calls attention to Elizabeth’s characteristically Tudor “ceremonial

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space between words and things, like that space between the Word and the Queen, there was both fear and freedom: the fear of anarchy (a chaos at once rhetorical and political) and the freedom to read and to act otherwise.

1. Eloquence and the Rhetoric of Accommodation Elizabeth entrusted the organization of her passage to men of substance and standing: to Richard Hilles, M. P., a Merchant Taylor and a newly returned Marian exile; to Lionell Ducket, a Mercer and afterward Lord Mayor; to Francis Robinson, a Grocer; and to Richard Grafton, a chronicler and guildsman who enjoyed royal favor under Henry VIII and Edward VI. Only nine days after the event, an extended account of the Queen Majesty’s passage was rushed into print by Richard Mulcaster, first headmaster of the Merchant Taylors’ School and later an M. P. (Then as now, speedy propaganda was successful propaganda.) That individuals in such positions of authority should own and be eager to display humanist credentials, was a commonplace of Elizabethan culture. George Pettie marked one familiar route to advancement when he wrote: “Alas you wyll be but ungentle Gentlemen, yf you be no Schollers: you wyll doo your pragmatism” in subordinating the potentially Catholic-seeming ritual of the coronation to the previous day’s civic progress (250), “‘Thou Idol Ceremony’: Elizabeth I, The Henriad, and the Rites of the English Monarchy,” Urban Life in the Renaissance, eds. Susan Zimmerman and Ronald F. E. Weissman (Newark, NJ: Univ. of Delaware Press, 1989), 240–66. In turn, Steven Mullaney highlights the Passage as an instance of theatrical and political “negotiation” between Elizabeth and the city for power (p. 24), The Place of the Stage (Chicago, IL: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1988). Mary Hill Cole reads the Passage rhetorically as well, commenting on the organizers’ efforts to offer the Queen “instruction in how to rule,” The Portable Queen: Elizabeth I and the Politics of Ceremony (Amherst, MA: Univ. of Massachusetts Press, 1999), p. 18. In turn, Susan Frye has focused critical attention on the “gendered exchanges that produced the text and that an uncritical reading imposes on its audience,” Elizabeth I: The Competition for Representation (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1993), p. 25. Especially interesting for my argument (by contrast to Breitenberg) is Frye’s attention to what she calls the Passage’s “unstable media of description and allegorical device” (p. 33). Far from creating an untroubled iconic surface, the Passage’s allegorical language by “splitting traditional signifiers and their signifieds reminded people that such connections are in fact arbitrary,” thereby giving rise to a text in which “the instability of language . . . perpetually undermines its authoritative use” (35). I hasten to agree with Frye about the Passage’s “unstable media,” but I locate an explanation for that instability elsewhere: not in inherent qualities of allegorical symbols, but rather in the historically specific assumptions of contemporary English humanists about the conditional relationship between res et verba.

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Prince but simple service, you wyll stande your Countrey but in slender steade, you wyll bryng your selves but to small preferment, yf you be no Schollers.”6 Humanist learning and state service made a ready partnership. By the time that Henry Peacham described “eloquent orators” as “props . . . to uphold a State, and the only keys to bring in tune a discordant commonwealth” (1622), he was giving voice to a longstanding cultural concern of humanist thought about the persuasive power of the word.7 Persuasion made for politically powerful language since the rhetorician was conventionally endowed with the power to move people’s minds and to influence moral choices, but he had another kind of power as well, less frequently noted, and arguably even more fundamental to the civilizing operation of society— the ability to promote the willing accommodation of citizens to their social callings, to playing their parts in the civic drama. For Cicero, accommodation was at once a rhetorical virtue—the orator’s skill in

Some better approach to those linguistic issues posed so centrally by the Passage is required, one that takes into account both its moments of startling iconic significance (as Breitenberg and Geertz have emphasized) and its strongly pragmatic, rhetorical character as the construction of learned humanist discourse (as McCoy, Mullaney, and Frye have argued). Foucault’s analysis of what Breitenberg calls the Renaissance episteme has long since lost its currency among historians of language, who argue for a less totalizing, more diverse, more intense competition among contrasting ideas about language and knowledge in the early modern period, a period in which words are variously conceived in iconic terms (as signatures that picture “naturally” the essence of things) and in conventionally rhetorical terms (as signs whose meanings are fixed by human agreement). (See, for instance, Margreta De Grazia’s “The Secularization of Language in the Seventeenth Century,” Journal of the History of Ideas 41, no. 2 (1980), 319–30 and Robert E. Stillman, The New Philosophy and Universal Languages in Seventeenth-Century England [Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell Univ. Press, 1995], pp. 278–80). Such diversity of historical attitude towards language figures importantly as a context for appreciating the complicated intermingling of the piously iconic and the politically pragmatic in Elizabeth’s Passage. There is a meaningful difference between celebrating the Queen as the fulfillment of a saving narrative scripted iconically in the true text of history by God, and in presenting Elizabeth with a vision of that narrative as a piece of pragmatic political persuasion. An adequate account of the Passage needs to make sense of that difference and the conjunction between the iconic and the rhetorical so crucial to its production. 6 The Civile Conversation of M. Steeven Guazzo, tr. George Pettie (London: Richard Watkins, 1581), p. 1v. For an exemplary instance of the political importance of scholarship in the Elizabethan state, see Paul E. J. Hammer, “The Earl of Essex, Fulke Greville, and the Employment of Scholars,” Studies in Philology 91 (Spring 1994), 167–80. 7 The Complete Gentleman in The Complete Gentleman, The Truth or Our Time, and The Art of Living in London, ed. Virgil B. Heltzel (Ithaca, NY: Cornell Univ. Press, 1962), p. 18.

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adjusting his rhetoric to the particular circumstances of his topic— and a political necessity, the individual’s willingness to adjust behavior to an appropriate role in society. Accommodation persuades, rather than compels. After all, it is the distinguishing characteristic of a civilized (as opposed to a brutish) existence. When Cicero speculates upon the origins of civilized life in De oratore, he asks, while reflecting about rhetoric: “what other power could have been strong enough either to gather scattered humanity into one place, or to lead it out of its brutish existence in the wilderness up to our present condition of civilization as men and as citizens?”8 Implied in Cicero’s question is a certain awareness that civilization requires unpleasant renunciations, but the celebration of the individual as citizen leaves such implications deeply submerged in the text. Cicero’s celebration of rhetoric is conditioned instead by his experience of civil war, those “graves communium temporum” (disastrous times of public peril), which frame his defense of the orator’s civilizing skills against a background of primitive anarchy both as distant memory and alternative future (1.1.2). The civilizing virtues of such rhetorical acts of accommodation are explicitly foregrounded by Thomas Wilson, the politically savvy author of one of Elizabethan England’s most interesting studies in sociolinguistics, The Arte of Rhetorique. As if recalling Cicero’s words, Wilson engages in some telling amplifications of his own as he celebrates the rhetorical arts at the outset of his treatise:9 Neither can I see that menne could have bene broughte by anye other meanes to lyve together in felowshyppe of life, to mayntayne Cities, to deale trulye, and willyngelye to obeye one another, if menne at the firste hadde not by Art and eloquence, persuaded that, which they ful oft found out by reason. . . . Who would digge and delve from morne till evening? Whom woulde travaile and toyle with the sweate of his browes? Yea, who woulde for his kynges pleasure adventure and hasarde his life, if witte hadde not so wonne men, that they thought nothing more nedefull in this world, nor anye thing whereunto they were more 8 De oratore, trans. H. Rackham, 2 vols. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Univ. Press; London: William Heinemann, 1952). 1. 8. 33: “quae vis alia potuit aut dispersos homines unum in locum congregare, aut a fera agrestique vita ad hunc humanum cultum civilemque deducere. . . .” 9 The Arte of Rhetorique, ed. Thomas J. Derrick (New York and London: Garland, 1982), pp. 19–20. Just as emphatically for Wilson as for Cicero, rhetoric’s power derives not from compulsion or subjection; instead, rhetoric calls, wins, trains, and (at its most forceful!) binds, persons who might (brutish alternative this!) be otherwise enticed or compelled.

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bounden: then here to live in their duty, and to traine their whole lyfe accordynge to their callynge. Therfore where as menne are in manye thynges weake by Nature and subjecte to much infirmitye: I thinke in this one pointe they passe all other Creatures livynge, that they have the gift of speache and reason.

Wilson champions civilization as eagerly as Cicero. Every sentence of his paragraph is shadowed by a similar horror of the brutish. Like Cicero, Wilson admires society’s fellowship and appreciates its arts. Yet as he marvels at the complex organization of civilized life, he records in explicit detail and with the greatest amazement those repeated acts of accommodation that make a hierarchically organized society possible—the strenuous labors of farmers, the perilous hazards of soldiers. What Wilson calls attention to by such means is the indispensable role that rhetoric plays within a complex social order in making such acts of accommodation appear both necessary and desirable: “they thought nothing more nedefull in this world, nor anye thyng whereunto they were more bounden.” Wilson’s reflections about the persuasive power of rhetoric originate, like Cicero’s, in his commitment to the practical necessity of the social order, a commitment reinforced by the piously Protestant overtones of his conclusion with its emphasis on attending to one’s “calling.” Like Cicero’s, too, such meditations are best comprehended in light of that dark vision of brutish existence, the anarchy of the uncivilized, which both shadows and conditions them. Speech and reason are great prizes (“I thinke,” says Wilson) because Nature subjects humankind “to much miserie.” For Wilson as for Cicero—both political exiles, both survivors of failed regimes, both educated pragmatists who celebrate the rhetorical arts as vehicles for the reconstitution of political order—rhetoric achieves its urgency precisely because of the uncertainty of things and the uncertainty of words (barely acknowledged by the barely hesitant “I thinke”) always to exert their power over things. The need for accommodation is conditioned by the lived experience of uncertainty.10 10 Kathy Eden, Peter Mack and Kees Meerhoff have drawn attention to a remarkable series of transformations in reading practices over the course of the sixteenth century in which Melanchthon’s rhetorical and dialectical theory played a major role—and it is from Melanchthon principally that Wilson’s art derives. Eden’s Hermeneutics and the Rhetorical Tradition argues concisely and cogently for a humanist rehabilitation during the sixteenth century of the classical tradition of interpretatio scripti—what she calls “a loosely organized set of rules for interpreting the written materials pertinent to legal cases, such as laws, wills, and contracts” (New Haven,

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Elizabeth’s passage through the city of London is staged as high royal drama, “wherein was shewed,” as Mulcaster writes, “the wonderfull spectacle, of a noble hearted princesse toward her most loving people . . .” (28). The mutual regard of sovereign and subjects, as an exemplary instance of a decorous politics, is repeatedly reinforced in Mulcaster’s account by his emphasis on the ideal decorum maintained within the pageants’ rhetorical artistry. As “blessing tonges” speak for “true hertes,” godly words derive from pious intentions as one instance of the Passage’s preoccupation with the appropriate matching of words and things.11 In turn, Mulcaster’s emphasis on decorum is just one element in a self-conscious strategy on the part of the organizers generally to celebrate their own rhetorical skills as they celebrate, persuade, and advise the Queen and her citizens. Always, for example, a premium is placed upon the rhetorical virtue of claritas, as in pageant after pageant, refined Latin verses are translated into plain English words; individual details of dress and spectacle explicitly interpreted; and potentially shadowy allegorical displays transposed into transparent exemplary shows. Transparency is at once, like decorum, a rhetorical and political ideal, especially for Elizabeth herself, who struggles in pageant after pageant to listen CN and London: Yale Univ. Press, 1997), p. 7. Formulated by Cicero and Quintillian, those rules included: attention to historical and textual context; analysis of complete works with an eye to the “economy” or the persuasive arrangement of the work’s parts; and concern for authorial intention and decorum as touchstones of analysis. Eden especially highlights the importance of “accommodation” to this tradition: the emphasis of the church fathers and their influential Reformed student, Melanchthon, on interpretation as an activity that makes readers at home in the text, encouraging them toward spiritual journeys of their own. See too Mack, “Rudolf Agricola’s Reading of Literature,” JWCI 48 (1985), 23–41; Mack, Renaissance Argument: Valla and Agricola in the Traditions of Rhetoric and Dialectic (Leiden and New York: E. J. Brill, 1993); and Meerhof ’s “Logic and Eloquence: A Ramusian Revolution?,” Argumentation 5 (1991), 357–74; “Melanchthon lecteur d’Agricola: rhetorique et analyse textuelle,” in Reforme-Humanisme-Renaissance, 16, no. 30 (1990), 5–22; and “The Significance of Melanchthon’s Rhetoric” in Renaissance Rhetoric, ed. Peter Mack (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1994), pp. 46–62. 11 When Mulcaster describes the assembled cast of virtues and vices who parade before Elizabeth in the second pageant, he takes special note of their dress, commenting that: “Eche of these personages according to their proper names and properties, had not onelie their names in plaine and perfit writing set upon their breastes easelie to be read of all, but also every one of them was aptelie and properlie apparelled, so that his apparell and name did agree to expresse the same person, that in title he represented” (33). The proper matching of words and things is an effort to guarantee the pageant’s artistry and truth, its rhetorical rightness.

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attentively and to respond clearly. Even more obvious for a contemporary audience would have been the organizers’ pride in the coherence of the pageants’ rhetorical organization. As Sydney Anglo noted some years past, these coronation proceedings differ most conspicuously from those of the early Tudor monarchs by virtue of the extraordinary care taken with their organization.12 Not surprisingly, again, their strategic unity of design is explicitly associated with the vision of a unified Elizabethan polity, the rebirth of the respublica bene instituta—that “flourishing commonweale” hailed in the climactic fourth pageant (47). Amidst all this evidence of self-conscious rhetorical display, this celebration of decorum, claritas, and coherence, what does surprise is the repeated deferral of that vision of the unified polity into an indeterminate and uncertain future, the repeated insistence that all the best blessings desired by the best hearts (for sovereign and citizen alike) are conditional. Shadows of uncertainty continually cloud the pageants. The first of the Passage’s five pageants glorifies the Queen’s royal lineage. Elizabeth’s entourage pauses in front of a platform on which are represented the founders of the Tudor line, Henry VII and his Queen, Elizabeth of York; above them are placed images of Henry VIII and Queen Anne, Elizabeth’s parents; and at the summit of the platform, as if ascending from the glories beneath, appears an image of Elizabeth herself. Excluded from this carefully conceived spectacle are any troubling memories of the tragically short reign of Edward VI or the bloody martyrdoms of Mary Tudor’s rule. The exclusion is calculated, since—to borrow Mulcaster’s words—“unitie was the ende wherat the whole devise shotte” (33). Elizabeth is celebrated not simply as a Tudor, but also as a Tudor in the great line of monarchs who bring concord to history. As “the onelye heire of Henrie the eight,” Elizabeth descends from both the houses of York and Lancaster, whose disputes had fueled the Wars of the Roses, and since she is herself a product of the “knitting up of concorde” ending those wars, it is hoped that she “might maintaine the same among her subjectes” (33). In the elusive language of pageantry, Elizabeth is at once celebrated as the bestower of concord and pointedly advised, in an idealized dramatization of the virtue, to realize that concord in present English history. “So now that jarre shall 12 Anglo, p. 353: “structurally, this entry was superior to anything seen in London since 1501.”

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stint, and quietnes encrease, We trust, O noble Queene, thou wilt be cause alone” (emphasis mine, 35). As the rhetoric makes clear, concord is a future event, an event very much conditional in kind. A sovereign’s right to rule depends traditionally on her possession of the appropriate royal virtues, and the next pageants appear specifically designed to endow Elizabeth with those virtues. The Queen is witness to a spectacle in which “a childe representing her maiesties person, placed in a seate of governement, [is] supported by certaine vertues, which suppressed other vices under their seate. . . .” (37). Pure Religion, Love of Subjects, Wisdom, and Justice truimph over such conventional evils as Rebellion, Insolence, Folly, and Vainglory. Once again, Elizabeth is celebrated as the possessor of royal virtues that legitimize her power, only to be strongly advised, in the conditional language of accommodation, to maintain her power by exercising those virtues, lest. . . . The consequences are too obvious to mention. “Like as by vertues (which doe aboundantly appere in her grace) the Queenes maiestie was established in the seate of governement: so she should syt fast in the same so long as she embraced vertue and helde vice under foote” (emphasis mine, 40). The need to celebrate is tempered by the need to advise; the desire to persuade the citizenry of the sovereign’s worthiness is balanced by the urge to persuade the sovereign to maintain that worthiness in her person. There is real tension among these diverse rhetorical motives, and that tension manifests itself again in the third pageant. On this occasion, eight children representing the eight beatitudes address the Queen directly and, as Mulcaster writes, “put her grace in mind, that as her good doinges before had geven just occasion, why that these blessinges might fall upon her, that so if her grace did contrive in her goodness as she had entred, she shoulde hope for the fruit of these promises due unto them . . .” (42). Celebration, admonition, and persuasion are mingled in a complex moment whose force and urgency depend on the conditional quality of the rhetoric. The climax of Elizabeth’s passage through the city of London is achieved in the fourth and crucial pageant designed to celebrate Elizabeth’s coronation. At the “litle conduit in cheape,” the Queen sees “two hylles or mountaynes of convenient heyghte” (44, 46). One of these “was made cragged, barreyn, and stonye, in the whiche was erected one tree, artificiallye made, all withered and deadde, with braunches accordinglye” (46). The mountain is an image of “Ruinosa Respublica, A decayed common weale” (46–47). The other mountain

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“was made fayre, freshe, grene, and beawtifull, the grounde thereof full of flowres and beawtie, and on the same was erected also one tree very freshe and fayre” (47). The second is an image of “Respublica bene instituta. A flourishing commonweale” (47). Between these two mountains, there is “one hollowe place or cave, with doore and locke enclosed” (47). Out of this cave, immediately before the Queen’s arrival, comes old man Time leading his daughter, Truth. Truth holds “a booke in her hande upon the which was written, Verbum veritatis, the woorde of trueth” (48). As Elizabeth approaches, the child hands her a copy of what Mulcaster informs us is “the Byble in Englishe” (44). The fourth pageant bristles with allusions to recent Tudor history. In a bold act of rhetorical recovery, the organizers of the passage borrow the motto that had served as the primary vehicle of state propaganda under the Catholic Mary Tudor, “veritas filia temporis,” and apply it in an emblematic display to their new Protestant sovereign, Elizabeth.13 This is recovery, rather than theft, since the motto had originally surfaced in sixteenth-century cultural politics as part of the Reformation’s assault upon that bride of Satan, the Catholic Church. Its first apppearance in England, as Fritz Saxl points out, on the verso of the title page of William Marshall’s Goodly Prymer in Englyshe (1535), occurs contemporaneously with Henry VIII’s divorce of the English Church from Rome (Saxl, 203). The broader historical purpose of this recovery is clear. After its unjust imprisonment in the dark cave of Catholic error, Protestant truth has at last appeared with Elizabeth’s coronation to transform a ruined republic into a flourishing commonwealth. The pageant redresses with its allusive spectacle a second injustice, more minor in kind, but equally significant, because of the evidence it supplies about the enormous political consequence generated in this humanist cultural context by arguments about words. In 1554, 13 Fritz Saxl, “Veritas Filia Temporis” in Philosophy and History: Essays Presented to Ernst Cassirer, ed. Raymond Klibansky and H. J. Paton (New York, Evanston, and London: Harper and Row, 1963), p. 207. See too Donald Gordon, “ ‘Veritas Filia Temporis’: Hadrianus Junius and Geoffrey Whitney,” JWCI 3 (1939–40), 228–40. For the continuing importance of the topic for Elizabeth, see Patricia Howard, “Time in the Entertainments for Queen Elizabeth I: 1590–1602,” University of Toronto Quarterly 65 (1996), 467–81. On the complicated political relationship between Elizabeth and her religious councillors, see Margaret Christian, “Elizabeth’s Preachers and the Government of Women: Refining and Correcting a Queen,” Sixteenth-Century Journal 24, no. 3 (1993), 561–76.

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some of the same individuals who organized Elizabeth’s passage had been employed to devise pageants in celebration of the marriage of Philip and Mary. At one point in their transit through London, Philip and Mary were greeted by celebratory images of Henry VIII and Edward VI. In his depiction of Henry, an unfortunate painter had made the mistake of placing a copy of the verbum dei in the sovereign’s hands, only to find himself severely reprimanded by the Bishop of Wincester for practicing “agaynst the quenes catholike proceedinges.”14 Forced to undo his semiological faux pas, the painter substituted a glove for the book. By placing the Bible in Henry’s hands rather than the Queen’s, the painter had removed the main source of religious and political authority from the sovereign to her father, and more important, from the Catholic tradition to the Protestant. In Henry’s hands, the Bible is automatically a Reformation document and an English text. When five years later the organizers of the coronation pageants redressed this injustice to the painter and to Protestantism, they made clear that the verbum veritatis that passed into Elizabeth’s hands was the “Byble in Englishe.” As the language of the humanist tradition, Latin was revered as an instrument for placing the English in touch with the world of the classic, the genuine, the culturally valued, but as the language of Catholicism, it was also marked as the tongue of the beast. English is the right medium for Protestantism. This double attitude among the Protestant humanists is reflected in the presence of Latin and English versions of all of the passage’s poems and emblematic names. The tie to the classical past is acknowledged, as the bonds with Rome are broken. It is well to remember that one of Elizabeth’s first proclamations as Queen, revoking Mary’s ban against the vernacular Bible, was to order that “the English letanie [be] read accordinglie as was used in hir graces chappell in churches through the citie of London. And likewise the epistle and gospell of the daie began to be read in the same churches at masse time in the English toong. . . .”15 The dethronement of Latin as the language of spiritual truth was but one element in the broader program of selective iconoclasm that marked the early months of Elizabeth’s reign. In January of 1559, the Spanish 14 See Anglo, p. 329. He is quoting from the so-called Chronicle of Queen Jane and Queen Mary. 15 Raphael Holinshed, Holinshed’s Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland, ed. H. Ellis (London: J. Johnson, et al., 1807–08), vol. 4, 158.

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ambassador’s distaste for the institution of English Litanies was compounded by his disgust at the defacement of “the statue of St. Thomas stoned and beheaded,” and by his horror at court mummeries portraying “crows in the habits of Cardinals, . . . asses habited as Bishops, and . . . wolves representing Abbots.”16 The Reformation inspired a revolution not just theological, but also semiological. The extraordinary political consequence of words is apparent in the political disputes that they occasion, and even more directly in the humanists’ efforts to reinforce their representational power. Everywhere the pageantry of Elizabeth’s passage reflects the diligent labors of humanist rhetoric—bolstered by a Protestant faith in the Word—to match properly and persuasively res et verba. The genealogical pageant with which Elizabeth’s passage begins illustrates the point well. As Mulcaster indicates, the pageant is nothing more than an extended and spectacular pun “grounded upon the Queenes majesties name” (33). As he explains: “For like as the long warre betwene the two houses of Yorke and Lancastre then ended, when Elizabeth doughter to Edwarde the fourthe matched in mariage with Henry the seventhe heyre to the house of Launcaster: so synce that the Queenes maiesties name was Elizabeth . . . it was devised that like as Elizabeth was the first occasion of concorde, so she another Elizabeth might maintaine the same among her subjectes . . .” (33). One Elizabeth brought peace, why not another? Mulcaster’s characterization of the pageant’s rhetoric is fascinating and important. He at once hints at and resists an iconic interpretation of Elizabeth’s name, which in this ritual context might readily be made to carry strong magical associations. Considered iconically, the name “Elizabeth” is no mere neutral sign, but a historically loaded signature whose saving significance and power can be evoked as if they might magically influence the present—as if, providentially scripted in her name as a second Elizabeth, was the salvation history that she now enacts. Considered rhetorically, by contrast, Elizabeth’s name is simply and conventionally a sign, the basis or groundplot of a fictional invention; the pageant is “grounded,” Mulcaster writes, upon her name, reminding us in his very vocabulary, once again, of the artfulness of the pageant’s rhetorical construction, its status as something invented or made up. Mulcaster’s characterization of this act of naming is so 16 Calendar of State Papers and Manuscripts (Venice), 1558–1580, ed. Rawdon Brown and G. Cavendish Bentinck (London: Eyre and Spottiswood, 1890), 7. 11.

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telling because—minor moment as it might first appear—it affords evidence of the humanist’s own self-consciousness about a gap yawning between the realm of signatures and signs, icons and images, the ideal narrative of salvation history and the ordinary, always uncertain realm of human history. The hope is that “quietnes encrease,” but that hope is conditioned by events in an indeterminate future: “We trust, O noble Queene, thou wilt be cause alone” (emphasis mine, 35). The urgency of humanist rhetoric derives from the necessity of filling that gap, of making causeways over an abyss separating the signature from the sign, icon and image, divine history and human history—an abyss always visible in humanist projects to restore to harmony the divided realms of words and things.

3. Words and Things/The Word and the Queen Language is made up of two principal parts, as any Elizabethan who read his Cicero would have known: “matter and words, and the words cannot fall into place if you remove the matter, nor can the matter have clarity if you withdraw the words.”17 What is basically a grammatical distinction in this passage from Cicero, a means of analyzing speech in terms of res et verba, came to be applied as a frequently used standard in a variety of other disciplinary domains. It is a stylistic slogan, a means for advising the writer, as Quintilian does, to be “careful in his choice of words” and to be “even more concerned about his subject matter.”18 Good writing is a matter of matching the right words to the right things. Matching words and things also has important moral implications, especially for the

17 Cicero, III. v. 19–20: “Nam cum omnis ex re atque verbis constet oratio, neque verba sedem habere possunt si rem subtraxeris neque res lumen si verba semoveris,” p. 16. For a still useful background study of the topic, see A. C. Howell, “Res et Verba: Words and Things,” ELH 13, n. 2 (March 1946), 131–42. For a review of Italian Renaissance criticism on the subject, see Bernard Weinberg, A History of Literary Criticism in the Italian Renaissance, 2 vols. (Chicago, IL: Chicago Univ. Press; Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1961). “Res et verba” cannot always be accurately translated by the phrase “words and things.” For res refers not merely to physical objects or events, but to the matter that the individual wishes to express. As a result res et verba is often better translated as “words and matter,” or even “words and reasons.” 18 Institutio oratoria, trans. H. E. Butler, 4 vols. (London: William Heinemann; New York: G. P. Putnam, 1921), VIII, Pr. 20–21: “Curam ergo verborum, rerum volo esse sollicitudinem.”

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sixteenth-century Horatian writers who adopted the phrase res et verba as their battle cry. The decorum of good speech is reflected in decorously good behavior, especially if the individual is instructed by poetry that combines the utile et dulce in the res et verba: “For every poem . . . consists of words and things. The things are those same moral precepts, and the words [the delightfull elements] are the diction itself.”19 Once more, by the Renaissance, the distinction between words and things had been elevated to a standard of epistemological evaluation. As Scaliger writes in an important and influential discussion of language in his Poetice: “Truth, in turn, is agreement between that which is said about a thing and the thing itself.”20 Matching words and things is an act of judgment. As a group, the humanists make few large claims for the kind of logically absolute correspondence between the structure of language and the structure of the world that so preoccupied the scholastic philosophers; as rhetoricians concerned with the practical consequences of knowledge, probable correspondences sufficed. Nonetheless, the comprehensiveness of the humanist formula of decorum is striking: achieving the right balance between res et verba is an essential standard of stylistic excellence, moral worth, and good judgment. Its achievement is the mark of eloquence; the good writer, the good person, and the good thinker will labor for it.21 When Mulcaster dwells upon the dress of the pageant’s performers, the names assigned to them, or the actions they perform, therefore, he does more than praise the artistry of the events. By highlighting the effort to achieve a decorous harmony between words and things, 19 Giovanni Britannico Da Brescia, Poemata (Milan, 1518 edn.), p. cxxxvi: “omne enim poema rebus et verbis constat: res enim sunt praecepta: verba vero ipsa oratorio.” Quoted by Weinberg, 1: 93. 20 Select Translations from Scaliger’s Poetics, trans. Frederick Morgan Padelford (New York: H. Holt, 1905), Bk. 1, ch. 1, p. 3. Julius Caesar Scaliger, Poetices Libri Septem (Lyon, 1561; Frederich Fromman Verlag: Stuttgard-Bad Cannstatt, 1964, facsim. edn.), p. 2: “Veritatis aut, orationis aequatio cum re.” 21 I hasten to note my agreement with Arthur F. Kinney that “the dangers of a permanent and exclusive faith in eloquence had been the birthright of humanism alongside the glorious possibilities of rhetoric,” Humanist Poetics (Amherst, MA: Univ. of Massachusetts Press, 1986), pp. 17–18. See also Richard Waswo’s argument that implied in the philosophy of Lorenzo Valla, the exegetical commentaries of Luther, and the plays of Shakespeare is an anticipation of “one of the major revolutions of twentieth-century thought: the shift from referential to relational semantics, from regarding the meaning of language as a given object of reference to regarding it as a dynamic function of use.” He argues that this shift is “a definitive feature of the Renaissance,” Language and Meaning in the Renaissance (Princeton, NJ: Princeton Univ. Press, 1987), p. 13.

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he marks the coronation pageants in their entirety as a product of humanist eloquence, complete with fit style, sound morals, and good judgment. The rhetoric of Elizabeth’s pageants gains authority by virtue of its eloquence, even as this eloquent harmony of words and things aspires to locate its reflection and justification in God’s Word. Roger Ascham strikes a familiar note from the English humanist tradition when he writes: “I never knew yet scholer, that gave himself to . . . folowe chieflie those three Authors [Plato, Aristotle, and Cicero] but he proved, both learned, wise, and also an honest man, if he joyned with all the trewe doctrine of Gods holie Bible, without the which, the other three, be but the fine edge tooles in a fole or mad mans hand.”22 It would have pleased Ascham to find the chief homage accorded to words in these coronation events paid to the verbum veritatis, a complex symbol whose significance merits careful attention. The verbum veritatis that passes into Elizabeth’s hands at the climax of these pageants is a copy of the scriptures, an English Bible whose muscular Protestantism supplies powerful support to the native church, just as it provides, conventionally, a set of standards for the moral, spiritual, and political government of the state. Within the specific context of the fourth pageant’s emblematic narrative, the presence of this literal embodiment of the verbum veritatis forms part of what Mulcaster might call the apt and proper apparel of Truth, as a decorous representation of Truth’s authority and of the authority of the Queen who receives the book from her. Signs repeatedly point upwards in this pageant. As the scriptural manifestation of God’s Word, the verbum veritatis is itself a representation of another representation in a specular hierarchy whose summit is God the Father. In the wider context of Renaissance Protestant thought, as Philippe de Mornay makes clear in a text later translated into Elizabethan English, The Trewenesse of the Christian Religion, Christ is “the Sonne, the Word, or the Speech; namely, the lively and perfect image and wisedome of the Father.”23 The Bible, then, as one perfect image of God’s Word, relates, most importantly, the story of that other perfect image, Christ, and the descent of the healing Word into human history. By associating Elizabeth with the 22 The Scholemaster (1570), ed. Edward Arber. English Reprints (London: Constable, 1927), pp. 118–19. 23 A Woorke Concerning the Trewenesse of the Christian Religion, trans. Sir Philip Sidney (?) and Arthur Golding (Delmar, NY: Scholars’ Facsimiles & Reprints, 1976), p. 57.

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verbum veritatis and the saving fiction by which Christianity offers relief from the sin and death of history, the coronation ritual of the fourth pageant seemingly endows her with divine authority as a sovereign power who brings concord to the troubled state. It is important to pursue the logic by which such associations become possible within Protestant humanist thought. Christ is a god of many names. As Mornay writes, “Also we call him Logos, which some translate Word or Speech, and othersome Reason” (59). The doctrine of the logos, as articulated in John’s gospel, is an effort to personalize in God the pure form and pure intellect of Greek philosophy, but it left Christian commentators like Mornay with the need to puzzle over the distinction between the Logos as Speech and the Logos as Reason. In order to reconcile any possible discrepancy between the two, Mornay explains that: “When we call him [Christ] Speech or Word, it is according to the doctrine of the Philosophers, who have marked that there is in man a dubble Speech; the one in the mynd, which thy call the inward Speech, which wee conceyve afore we utter it; and the other the sounding image thereof, which is uttered by our mouth and is termed the Speech of the Voyce” (59). In Mornay’s terms, reason is not something different from speech, but a particular form of it, as “the speech of the mynd” (59). Christ can be called “Speech or Word” because he “is the perfect image of [God’s] understanding, and God’s understanding is God himself.” He can be called “Reason, because Reason is as ye would say the Daughter, Speech or worde of the understanding; and we say that by the same Speech or word, God made al things” (60). What is so interesting and important about Mornay’s argument is that Christ achieves his divine status as the Logos because God operates according to sound principles of humanist rhetoric: the word and the thing are one. As God’s Word, Christ embodies God’s power. Mornay makes the analogy between divine wisdom and human practice explicit: “For Wisedome (even in man) is nothing els but a haviour proceeding of diverse Concepts or inward speeches, whereby our mynde is perfected in the knowledge of high things” (60). The analogy between divine speech and human speech seeks to dispel for the Protestant humanist some of those insecurities potentially inherent within an epistemology guaranteeing the merely probable correspondence of words and things. Wisdom is a matter of matching the right verbum to the right res, for God and man. In the course of elevating a humanist rhetorical principle to the status of a theological

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principle, Mornay illustrates how divine authority is supplied to contemporary humanist discourse. A pious linguistics serves political ends. This is a truth that Richard Grafton—one of the pageants’ humanist makers—knew well. When in 1539 he published the first edition of The Great Bible, he commissioned a woodcut for the title page, commonly assumed to be by Hans Holbein.24 Holbein’s woodcut is a monument to the power of the verbum dei to enlist the accommodation of citizens to the state, and as such it represents an early version of the spectacular employment of the verbum veritatis in Elizabeth’s passage. (See Figure 1.) At the top of the woodcut sits Henry VIII, by far the largest figure in the picture. Enthroned in imperial splendor, Henry holds two copies of the verbum dei. The classical emblems of monarchical power, the book and the sword, are replaced by the new emblem of sovereign authority, God’s Word. To either side of the King stand Cranmer (left) and Cromwell (right) who receive copies of the verbum dei from Henry and, as chief authorities in the English Church, distribute them appropriately to the citizens below. The organization of the woodcut is plainly hierarchical, as is its political lesson. Above Henry’s head, and gazing down upon the King with obvious approval, appears Christ in the clouds. As Henry displays his obedience to the Word, so he teaches his citizens obedience to himself. Holbein’s woodcut affords an excellent example of the function that Michel Foucault identifies as essential to the operation of authority in the state, the effacement of “the domination intrinsic to power.”25 Power is always more potent when it appears to belong to someone else, in this instance, to Christ rather than to Henry, though there can be no mistaking whose authority this woodcut ultimately supports. When the assembled crowd shouts approval from below, their mouths are filled not with hosannas to heaven, but instead with “Vivat Rex” and “God save the Kynge.” No wonder. They are simply (if 24 See Roy C. Strong, Holbein and Henry VIII (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul for the Paul Mellon Foundation for British Art, 1967) and David Piper, “Hans Holbein the Younger in England,” Journal of the Royal Society of Arts 111 (1963), 736–55. 25 Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings, 1972–1977, ed. Colin Gordon and trans. Colin Gordon, Leo Marshall, et al. (New York: Pantheon Books, 1972). He writes: “the essential function of the discourse and techniques of right has been to efface the domination intrinsic to power in order to present the latter at the level of appearance under two different aspects: on the one hand, as the legitimate rights of sovereignty, and on the other, as the legal obligation to obey it,” p. 95.

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Figure 1. Title page of The Great Bible (1541 edition). In disgrace, Cromwell has lost his insignia.

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enthusiastically) repeating the lessons that have been handed down from on high. From the mouths of Cromwell, Cranmer, and More (bottom left), and even from the lips of Christ, biblical quotations issue in support of the monarchy. More’s citation is typical: “I exhort therefore, that, first of all, supplicating prayers, intercessions, and giving of thanks, be made for all men; For kings, and for all that are in authority” (I Tim. 2:1–2). It is telling, therefore, about the self-effacing function of power in its denial of the domination intrinsic to it, that the biblical quotation given to Henry comes from the humbled King Darius after Daniel’s release from the lions’ den. Humbled into acknowledging the power of the one supreme God, Darius proclaims: “I make a decree. That in every dominion of my kingdom men tremble and fear before the God of Daniel: for he is the living God, and stedfast for ever, and his kingdom that which shall not be destroyed, and his dominion shall be even unto the end” (Daniel 6:26). Darius’s obedience to God is the biblical type of Henry’s, and only because this obedience has been offered, the iconology suggests, does Henry acquire the power to reign in his state. A pious linguistics supplies the logic of the idealized and imaginary relations among savior, sovereign, and subject at the foundation of Henry’s “dominion . . . even unto the end.” The effacement of the domination intrinsic to power plays an important, but different role in Elizabeth’s passage. The emblematic display of the fourth pageant is unrelentingly romantic. Truth, a helpless young girl imprisoned in a deep, dark cave emerges at just the right time to deliver a copy of the verbum veritatis into the hands of a young virgin Queen, who, though oppressed by enemies at home and abroad, pledges herself—with God’s help—to restore England to a flourishing commonwealth. Such is the stuff of romance narrative, even melodrama. The impression of the Queen’s vulnerability is matched only by her piety as she graciously accepts the Bible from the hands of Truth, then enthusiastically clasps that Bible to her breast. Henry holds the Word like a sword, brandishing his Bible as if it were an instrument of battle. Elizabeth embraces the Word as a lost daughter might embrace her parent, as a source of nurture and support. In the process, once again, a humble accommodation of the sovereign to God empowers by the effacement of power. Mulcaster makes the logic of this presentation clear when he writes: “But because princes be set in their seate by gods appointing . . . they must first and chieflie tender the glory of him, from

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whom their glorie issueth” (63). As he proceeds to argue, Elizabeth deserves special praise in this regard since “God will undoubtedly preserve so worthy a prince, which at hys honor so reverently taketh her beginning. For this saying is true, and written in the boke of Truth. He that first seketh the kingdome of God, shall have all other thinges cast unto him . . .” (64). All other things, indeed. At the moment of its genesis, Elizabethan culture displays its social structure and sovereign, and pronounces them good. The narrative of the fourth pageant creates in its celebration of the Word an idealized relationship among savior, sovereign, and citizen. The nature of that relationship, like the Protestant theology upon which it is founded, is hierarchical and speculary. Just as God’s Word finds its perfect image in Christ and the Bible, so the bearer of God’s Word, Truth, selects seemingly the perfect image of herself as the historical bearer of that Word, Elizabeth. As the ritual action strongly suggests, the Queen is the Truth that restores the flourishing commonwealth. The word and the thing are one. (So, too, the Word and the Queen.) In this way, the rhetorical assumptions of the humanist tradition, with its energetic pursuit of the right verbum for the right res, become essential both to the conceptualization of the divine order and to the representation of political relations in the state. Only in light of this apparent identification of Elizabeth as the Truth does the other speculary function of the fourth pageant reveal its full significance. As Elizabeth piously embraces the Word of God, she supplies a mirror image for the necessary and desirable embrace by the citizens of herself, as the bearer of the Word. Truth’s daughter becomes England’s champion, triumphing beyond all expectation, as a dramatic realization of the imaginary social identities provided to Elizabeth, that magically empowered child of Truth, and her grateful citizens. As Louis Althusser writes in his adaptation of Lacanian theory to the study of social practices, an ideologically motivated ritual brings with it “the absolute guarantee that everything really is so, and that on condition that subjects recognize what they are and behave accordingly, everything will be all right: Amen— ‘So be it’” (180–81). The success of prayer, as Althusser acknowledges, is conditional. Thomas Wilson would have written more simply and more concretely, with a sharp eye for the tortured labor of farmers and the perilous hazards of soldiers, that it is by such rhetorical means that individuals are persuaded that there is nothing more “nedeful” in this world. Wilson would have noted, too, with a sharp

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eye for the “infirmitye” of the human condition, that whatever the persuasiveness of those rhetorical means, however binding the words, the circumstances of an uncertain and indeterminate world could always effect a different conclusion.

4. Concluding Differently: Eloquent Magic/Eloquent Rhetoric As Victoria Kahn has effectively argued, the rhetorical ideals of Renaissance humanism disclose a problem inherent in the humanist program itself: inside the humanist celebration of decorum, the right matching of res et verba, are potentially problematic epistemological implications. “The ideal practice of the orator,” Kahn writes, is inseparable from “the faculty of prudence.”26 Both the orator and the pragmatic statesman share as their primary concern “the domain of probability” (35). The humanist’s preoccupation with decorum, with the matching of words and things, is not intended to secure “exact correspondence to some fixed theoretical truth or ethics,” but instead to establish “a practical truth” that promotes “the maintenance of a social and political community” (43). The problem inherent in this understanding of decorum and the probable truths it supplies, according to Kahn, is that “The legitimacy of the prudential judgement’s claim to be something more than mere subjective preference . . . is ultimately an article of faith that by definition cannot justify itself before the court of skepticism” (46). Her point is right on target: the last refuge of a probabilistic epistemology is often an “article of faith.” While Kahn is clearly correct to identify as one major consequence of this problem the emergence in the late Renaissance of a strong skeptical tradition that spawned “an eventual questioning of [the humanists’] own practical criterion of truth,” there was a second, distinct consequence of the humanists’ commitment to a probabilistic epistemology, especially within fictions inspired by humanist principles: the busy transformation of those articles of faith into iconic representations of Truth.27 26 Rhetoric, Prudence, and Skepticism in the Renaissance (Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell Univ. Press, 1985), p. 35. 27 Kahn, p. 48. For a useful discussion about how seriously we should take representations of monarchs as sacred, see Helen Hackett, “Dreams or Designs, Cults or Constructions? The Study of the Images of Monarchs,” The Historical Journal 44, no. 3 (2001), 811–23. Because of the merely probabilistic claims of humanist

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Within Elizabeth’s Passage that potential problematic manifests itself clearly in the division between alternative ways of understanding its climactic fourth pageant. Consider again the significance of Truth’s presentation of the verbum veritatis to Elizabeth, and note the discrepant awareness—the multiplication of perspectives—created by the emblematic events. In the masque-like merger of the historical world with the fictional realm at the moment that the Elizabeth receives the Bible from the hands of Truth, the pageant assumes a near-magical appearance, as if the Word and the Queen have then and there restored England to a flourishing commonwealth. The Queen adopts the character of Truth in a moment of second incarnation—a sign of the vehemence of the cultural desire at work here to insure, absolutely and unequivocally, the ontological reality of an Elizabethan “Respublica bene instituta.” From this perspective, the pageant achieves an iconic status, as if the ritual representation of events were a transparent depiction of the shaping hand of God at work. But this is only one perspective from which to interpret the unfolding show, and an inevitably partial one at that. From the vantage of the historically specific circumstances of the pageant’s performance, the Bible’s placement in the hands of Elizabeth appears less iconic than pragmatic, less like a magical event, and more like the anxious admonition of humanist advisors about that new, imperiled, all-toovulnerable Queen’s need to champion the Protestant cause. The show manifests itself as politics tout court, a pointed piece of advice from worried advisors, who dress Elizabeth in the apparel of truth because historical conditions require it. Situated then on that ambiguous borderline between the iconic and the historical, between magic and metaphor, the pageant possesses an irreducible doubleness that defines its complex rhetorical character. As pragmatically motivated praise and persuasion, the Passage’s events appear to function prudentially (in Kahn’s terms) to promote “the maintenance of a social and political community.” As piously inspired iconic celebrations, the pageants appear to function magically in order to mark-in-the-making the birth of a new cultural epistemology, the realization of an Elizabethan “Respublica bene instituta,” however vehemently desired as an ontological reality, can be represented only as an act of faith, the oneness of the Word and the Queen. Persuasive advice is at best salutary to its achievement. The always limiting circumstances of historical life demand accommodation—accommodations on the part of sovereign and citizen that these humanist makers urgently persuade, but cannot compel.

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order. The Passage’s rhetoric is by turns pragmatic and iconic, moving between contrasting poles of expressive potential, in complex moments of praise, persuasion, and advice. The promise of unity between “blessing tongues” and “true hearts” in an idealized Respublica bene instituta is conditioned by the urgently experienced need to create a causeway across the abyss, to bridge the gap between metaphor and magic, the historical and the iconic. Discrepant awareness leads to a renewed sense of the necessity of rhetoric in a ritual progress that continually foregrounds, in its double vision, the gap between the Word as Icon and the word as human speech and reason. Roy Strong has argued in his study of the cult of Elizabeth that a primary characteristic of her ritual images “lay in [their] capacity to be read and re-read many ways and never to present a single outright statement which left no room for manoeuvre.”28 If Strong is right to assert that the multivalent significance of the ritual image often comprises part of its strength, as a convenient tool for dramatizing multiple meanings, such multivalence bears importantly on how best to understand the ideological character of Elizabeth’s Passage. The coronation rituals arguably both afford and invite a multiplicity of responses by fostering what I have called discrepant awareness, and such multiple meanings seem inimical to ideological readings of a deterministic kind. Claims to the deterministic power of ideologies are always theoretically suspect since they are by definition unprovable.29 But such claims seem especially incautious when applied to a text like this one for two important reasons: they mistake the origin and character of the Passage’s rhetorical power, which derive so substantially from foregrounding the gap between iconic representations of the Word and human words, from the self-conscious reminders of the Passage’s humanist makers about the merely conditional force of their speeches and reasons. (Determinism does poorly in the space of the conditional). Second, while Althusser is useful for clarifying 28 Roy Strong, The Cult of Elizabeth: Elizabethan Portraiture and Pageantry (Wallop, Hampshire: Thames and Hudson, 1977), p. 112. From a different perspective, Louis A. Montrose attributes such multiplicity of meaning to the state’s “limited” and “uncertain” power “to control the signifying process,” “Idols of the Queen: Policy, Gender, and the Picturing of Queen Elizabeth I,” Representations 68 (1999), 108–61. 29 By definition, such claims are unprovable because there can never be any place beyond or outside the determining boundaries of ideology from which to speak or to write, unless (as a contemporary act of faith, Althusser-style), one ascribes to dialectical materialism as an authentically scientific, objective discourse. See Pecheux, pp. 133–70.

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the power of accommodation as a rhetorical and political goal in these coronation rituals, such deterministic claims would inevitably misrepresent the Passage’s most important spectator and star, the Queen herself. For Elizabeth possesses an irreducible doubleness parallel in kind to the rhetorical strategies of these humanist makers, a doubleness illuminated by the roles she plays throughout the coronation proceedings. The Queen is both spectator and star, audience and actor, both a reader of signatures and a master/mistress of signs—contrasting roles that point, once again, to real complexity in these ritual events. As audience, Elizabeth is led, sometimes passively it seems, from display to emblematic display and instructed by ritual images about how to read her own royal virtues, secular and religious. Such ritual images are presented sometimes as commonplaces of textbook moral advice, virtues that she is advised and persuaded to assume. At other moments, those images assume the likeness of signatures— seeming symbols of a historical identity, already divinely ordained, to which she is asked to accommodate herself. Elizabeth not only reads signatures about herself, but also is clearly advised to see herself as a signature, as a Queen whose historical role has been written in God’s book: as the steadfast Deborah, for instance, she is a woman providentially scripted to guide the children of the new (Protestant!) Israel. These are additional reminders about the potential power of accommodation to control and constrain both the citizens and the sovereign, the young virgin Queen Elizabeth. At the same time, and true to character, Elizabeth knows well how to parlay roles from audience to actor, spectator to star. Mulcaster’s account of the coronation pageants emphasizes repeatedly Elizabeth’s delight in histrionic display. As a child addresses a poem to her, she adopts a “marvelous change in looke” and a “rejoysing visage” (30). When Truth hands her the Bible, Elizabeth “received the booke, kyssed it, and with both her handes held up the same, and so laid it upon her brest, with great thankes to the citie” (48). She even makes some unscheduled departures from the script, staging miniature dramas of her own. When the fourth pageant is interrupted by the arrival of a gift of 1000 gold marks from the city aldermen, Elizabeth seizes the opportunity to announce: “I wil be as good unto you, as ever quene was to her people. No wille in me can lacke, neither doe I trust shall ther lacke any power” (46). Quickly taking advantage of the situation, she parlays the city’s gift of gold

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into a promise of royal munificence and a reminder of royal sovereignty: the receipt of the gift is made conditional on the acknowledgment of her power. Her assumption of agency, beyond the limits of those humanist makers’ script, is striking and dramatic. Elizabeth is more than a reader of signatures. She is also a politically adept master/mistress of signs.30 Consider at our own historical juncture Elizabeth in the Quenes Majesties Passage as she is led station by station to heed the lessons of concord or to learn the political blessings of beatitudes, and it requires no great leap of imagination to recall the icon-like face of that newly crowned Queen haunting the screen of Shekhar Kapur’s 1998 film, Elizabeth I. Kate Blanchett’s Elizabeth is a butterfly frozen by a circus calliope, a woman paralyzed by the patriarchal ideology of an oppressive culture who finds herself consigned to a lifeless future. Blanchett is the very definition of the sovereign subjected to Althusserian interpellation: a puppet who learns too well from her masters to pull strings for herself. For audiences of a different generation, Blanchett’s Elizabeth comes as something of a shock, accustomed as they are to images of Glenda Jackson, playing an Elizabeth who is the very image of the enlightenment’s liberal subject—temperamental but charming, wise and witty, always a powerful independent agent who by ruling herself learns to rule others. At those moments of the Passage where the Queen lingers, with politically calculated effect, to dramatize her enthusiasm at the displays’ unfolding, or especially at those times where she departs meaningfully from the script—pausing, for instance, among the aldermen to trade symbolic capital for capital both material and political in kind—Glenda Jackson’s Elizabeth seems still a skillful embodiment of such agency.31 My purpose in juxtaposing these two cinematic images of Elizabeth, each of which accords with a certain aspect of the Queen’s representation in Mulcaster’s Passage, is to highlight the complexity of her historical image as it unfolds in the coronation pageants and the

30 For a recent article highlighting Elizabeth’s success in negotiating humanist practices of counsel to assume a powerful “array of active roles . . . within the political system,” see Mary Thomas Crane, “‘Video et Taceo’: Elizabeth I and the Rhetoric of Counsel,” Studies in English Literature 28, no. 1 (1988), 1–15. 31 For a helpful review of contemporary cinematic Elizabeths, see Renee Pigeon’s “‘No Man’s Elizabeth’: The Virgin Queen in Recent Films” in Retrovisions: Reinventing the Past in Film and Fiction (London: Pluto, 2001), pp. 8–24.

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indispensability of a rhetorical analysis for rendering that representation intelligible. The doubleness of Elizabeth’s roles as audience and actor, spectator and star, parallels the rhetorical doubleness organizing the Passage at large. The Queen is comprehensible as neither the fully determined subject of Althusserian theory nor as the independent agent of liberal critique, no more than the Passage’s rhetoric is intelligible as either iconic or pragmatic. Instead, what is crucial to comprehending the Passage’s rhetorical organization is arguably crucial to understanding the issues of subjectivity and power posed therein––an appreciation of irreducible doubleness, which analysis proceeds to eliminate only at the cost of its own intelligibility. The ideologically charged power of ritual images and the limited persuasiveness of ordinary words, the conditioning agency of accommodation and the always conditional freedom of individuals to act otherwise—the history is complicated by seemingly irreconcilable extremes that elude our capacity, here and now, to name or to define adequately. At the edge of understanding, poised at the brink of our own abyss of historical comprehension, we fall back upon considerations about words (so much like the humanist makers!) because it is there, we remain persuaded, that the complexities of things are discovered and conditioned.

BRITOMART’S BACKWARD GLANCE IN SPENSER’S FAERIE QUEENE: LIMINAL TRIUMPHS/DARK EROTICS IN BUSIRANE’S MASK OF CUPID Tiffany J. Alkan

In the climax of Edmund Spenser’s third book of The Faerie Queene, Britomart—the heroine and knight of chastity—battles Busirane, a wicked enchanter whom she must vanquish. Her mission to rescue the lovely (but unheroic) Amoret depends on her ability to withstand the terrifying and perverse mask of Cupid, a triumphal pageant and wedding mask executed by Busirane’s sorcery. Britomart succeeds and leaves the house of Busirane, leading the enchanter himself captive, bound by his own great chain. Amoret follows and as they return through the great halls, the “goodly roomes” and glory of Busirane’s hall decay (III.xii.42).1 Then, at the apex of the chaste heroine’s triumph, something strange happens. The vanishing of the “so rich and royally arayd” evil palace “that fraud did frame” provokes not victorious elation, but instead Britomart’s consternation (III.xii.42, 43). Her reaction, “That sight of such a chaunge her much dismayd,” seems a paradoxical moment (III.xii.42).2 Why should she lament the erasure of a hall, no matter how “rich and royally arayd,” wherein she had grappled with and defeated the “vile villany” of Busirane’s mask (III.xii.42/35)? Britomart’s keen dismay parallels many readers’ nervousness when the final rushing stanzas of Book III unravel the previous two cantos’ elaborately textured verbal tapestries. Her behavior in Book III’s final canto perplexes critics, who seek to situate the mask of Cupid in Amoret’s fearful fantasies of love.3 Although long a critical locus 1

Spenser: The Faerie Queene, ed. A. C. Hamilton (New York: Longman, 1977). Citations are to book, canto, and stanza and are hereafter included in text. 2 Spenser uses “dismayd” frequently as a participle adjective with a range of meanings. Its meaning here seems closest to the OED definition of “overwhelmed by fear; appalled” as when Britomart first sees the fire burning before Busirane’s castle in III.xi.22, “Greatly thereat was Britomart dismayd.” It suggests a loss of courage and the feeling of being undone and paralyzed by fear. The pun in “dismayd” takes on a darker meaning at the end of Canto xii. 3 Triumphs, pageants, “disguising,” mummery, and masks are spectacles that modern historians typically distinguish. To the Elizabethans, however, the terms were

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in Spenser scholarship, Busirane’s halls and mask bear more explanation, explanation that attention to the realm of Renaissance performance arts can best supply. Amoret plays a focal role as the rescued virgin, but we must also remember that Busirane’s enchantments are quite as much about Britomart.4 Once more, Britomart’s is a liminal experience—one that serves as an initiation into a darkless clearly differentiated and often interchangeable. A social occasion might combine elements of disguising, dancing, and tournament-style combat. I use the older spelling “mask” on the basis of E. K. Chambers, who argues that Ben Jonson in the early part of the seventeenth century first established our contemporary spelling “masque,” The Elizabethan Stage, 4 vols., vol. 1 (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1923), 1.153. For the fluidity of terminology during the period, see Sydney Anglo, “The Evolution of the Tudor Disguising, Pageant and Masque,” Renaissance Drama 1 (1968): 3–44. More recently, scholars recognize that earlier Tudor use of the term mask in the Revels almost always referred to court entertainment so much so that the first Master of Revels, Sir Thomas Cawarden, was described as the Master of “revelles and Maskes,” see Chapter 13 “Terminology” in Meg Twycross and Sarah Carpenter, Masks and Masking in Medieval and Early Tudor England (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002) at p. 328. 4 Many critics focus on Amoret’s experience of the mask. For example, Kathleen Williams argues that the experience is all Amoret’s fancy, Spenser’s World of Glass; a Reading of the Faerie Queene (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1966), pp. 26–27. Thomas P. Roche, following the work of Janet Spens, reads the house of Busirane as an objectification of Amoret’s fear of sexual love in marriage in, The Kindly Flame: A Study of the Third and Fourth Books of Spenser’s Faerie Queene (Princeton, NJ: Princeton Univ. Press, 1964); Janet Spens, Spenser’s Faerie Queene: An Interpretation (London: E. Arnold, 1934). For more on Amoret’s perspective, which suggests what we see is not so much her fear as Scudamore’s attempt at “maistrye,” see also A. Kent Hieatt, “Scudamour’s Practice of Maistrye Upon Amoret,” PMLA 77, no. 4 (1962): 509–10; and Chaucer, Spenser, Milton: Mythopoetic Continuities and Transformations (Montreal: McGill-Queens Univ. Press, 1975) esp. chapters 7 and 8. Harry Berger notes the increasingly introverted nature of the mask in, “Busirane and the War between the Sexes: An Interpretation of the Faerie Queene III.xi–xii,” English Literary Renaissance 1, no. 2 (1971): 99–121. Such critical focus on Amoret’s perception of the mask sidesteps the fact that as readers we experience it only as Britomart sees it. Lauren Silberman shifts the emphasis away from Amoret to note that “it is Britomart for whom the Masque is not just a spectacle but the scene of battle in her quest to liberate Amoret from Amor and define her own chastity,” in, “The Hermaphrodite and the Metamorphosis of Spenserian Allegory,” Early Literary Renaissance 17 (1987): 207–23 at 18. This argument is more fully developed in Lauren Silberman, Transforming Desire: Erotic Knowledge in Books III and IV of the Faerie Queene (Berkeley: Univ. of California Press, 1995). Julia Walker observes that in the house of Busirane, Britomart begins to recognize external projections of her internal sexual fears, “Spenser’s Elizabeth Portrait and the Fiction of Dynastic Epic,” Modern Philology 90, no. 2 (1992):172–99. Elizabeth Porges Watson notes “Britomart’s detachment is strangely uncharacteristic. It demands explanation, whether she at once recognizes the masque as being phantasmagoric, merely symptomatic of its true origin, or because it expresses imaginings of her own that have to be brought under control before constructive action is possible,” in “Mr. Fox’s Mottoes in the House of Busirane,” Spenser Studies 13 (1999): 285–90 at 87. Other discussions of this episode include Helen Gardner, “Some Reflections on the House of Busyrane,” Studies in English

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natured eroticism.5 Significantly, Spenser indicates the liminal quality of Britomart’s experience most spectacularly by the processional pageant of Busirane’s mask itself—a quality, in turn, that can best be understood in context with other kinds of Renaissance public spectacles. In this essay I will be dealing, then, with the tradition of Tudor masks, triumphs, pageants and their liminality, a liminality that I explore with the help of Arnold van Gennep and Victor Turner. Once we understand how a tradition of public, ritualized spectacle informs Britomart’s experience, we can ask what sort of experience that liminal encounter with the mask initiates her into. Cupid’s mask represents a fulcrum in Britomart’s quest. Here, alone in the heart of an enchanter’s lair, she confronts the full cast of emotional horrors that had made her inwardly quake in Canto ii when she speaks of Artegall with Guyon (III.ii.5). She sees the mask of Cupid at midnight in the second chamber of Busirane’s hall. It begins with a loud “shrilling Trompet,” a “hideous storme of winde . . . /With dreadfull thunder and lightning atwixt,” and a “direfull stench of smoke and sulphure mixt” (III.xii.1,2). Following this dramatic opening, the figure of Ease enters like one who introduces a play, “Yclad in costly garments, fit for tragicke Stage” (III.xii.3). A most “delitious harmony/In full straunge notes” of sweet melody accompanies the maskers as they march forth “in trim aray” (III.xii.6). Fancy as a “louely boy” leads the troupe, followed by Desyre (III.xii.7). After Fancy the mask figures become more grim and troubling: Doubt who looks “askew with his mistrufull eyes,” Literature 34, no. 136 (1983): 402–13; Mark Bruhn, “Approaching Busyrane: Episodic Patterning in the Faerie Queene,” Studies in Philology 92, no. 3 (1995): 275–90; James W. Broaddus, Spenser’s Allegory of Love: Social Vision in Books III, IV, and V of the Faerie Queene (Cranbury: Fairleigh Dickinson Univ. Press, 1995), and Elizabeth Story Donno, “The Triumph of Cupid: Spenser’s Legend of Chastity,” Year in English Studies 4 (1974): 37–48. Critics such as Gardner (1983) and Bruhn (1995) fault explicators for the use of Book IV to explain Book III because this strategy blurs Book III’s narrative logic and detracts from Britomart’s rescue of Amoret as a discrete climax. However, I believe in situating the episode within the larger context of Britomart’s quest, a quest that does not end in Book III as conclusively as does those of the earlier heroes, the Redcrosse Knight or Sir Guyon. 5 I follow Victor Turner’s definition and use of the term “liminal” (a definition itself influenced by Arnold van Gennep). Transition lies at the heart of the idea and stems from the Latin limen “threshold.” Liminal rites were central to a culture’s staging of various rites of passage and range from marriage rites to initiation rituals. Turner expanded and developed his concept of the “liminal” over a period of years. The most relevant texts for my discussion are: The Forest of Symbols: Aspects of Ndembu Ritual (Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 1967), pp. 93–111; The Ritual Process:

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Daunger who bears a net and rusty blade, Feare, Dissemblance, Suspect, Griefe, Fury, Displeasure, and Pleasance (III.xii.10–18). At the center of the mask Amoret, with a naked, wounded breast, “her feeble feet did moue” (III.xii.19). Her heart has been ripped from her chest, and transfixed “with a deadly dart,” it is borne before her in a “siluer basin” (III.xii.21). The “winged God himselfe” follows with his blindfold unbound so that he can survey his “goodly company” (III.xii.22,23). After him follows more maskers, a rabble of “phantasies/In wauering wemens wit” of “paines in loue” (III.xii.26). They march three times around the room and disappear into the inner room. Behind them the door slams, “fast locked” and “driuen with that stormy blast” (III.xii.27). Busirane’s mask, his statue, and his tapestries show Cupid’s spoils won at great cost to the victims. This Cupid is not the playful winged boy but a tyrant of love. The passions of love and specifically, eroticism defined as the amatory—sexual aspects of love figured in Amoret’s wounded breast and bleeding heart at the mask’s center—lie at the core of this liminal encounter. Spenser’s portrayal of Britomart suggests a volatile eroticism that she never quite masters—and perhaps never can, or should. The mask of Cupid marks a liminal threshold for Spenser’s exploration of chastity—a complex, multiple perspectival vision of chastity that I argue might be better understood in light of Georges Bataille’s insights into erotic experience. Reading the mask through the social theory of van Gennep and Turner on ritual rites of passage and the erotic theory of Bataille helps make sense of its ties to public spectacle and its private, psychological consequences for Britomart, her destined union, and the frightening and alluring nature of eroticism. It leaves us with a Britomart who may not fully encompass virtuous desire and who may not be as chaste of a heroine as we might like to believe. Structure and Anti-Structure, Lewis Henry Morgan Lectures; 1966 (Chicago: Aldine Pub. Co., 1969), p. 95; and Victor Witter and Edith Turner, “Religious Celebrations,” in Celebration: Studies in Festivity and Ritual, ed. Victor Witter Turner (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1982). While much of Turner’s work around ritual studies “primitive” tribal groups, his later work exhibits a shift toward complex industrial societies in the modern world. Realizing that the liminality of Ndembu ritual differs from the quasi-liminal character of modern cultural pageants like theatre and other leisure activities, Turner introduces the term “liminoid” phenomena that he suggests offer critiques on existing social practices. See Victor Witter Turner, From Ritual to Theatre: The Human Seriousness of Play, vol. 1 (New York: Performing Arts Journal Publications, 1982).

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Just what happens to Britomart in Busirane’s hall puzzles readers in part because Spenser fosters confusion through the “monstrous formes” that he asks his readers to examine (III.xi.51). As a mask, Busirane’s entertainment has links to a Tudor court fascinated by spectacles. As part of a narrative within his epic poem, Busirane’s mask draws on a literary tradition of allegorical triumphs of love. What makes this mask so incongruous is that Spenser fuses these two Renaissance pageant contexts—public productions of masks with the emblematic triumph tradition of continental humanists such as Petrarch and Du Bartas—along with two aspects of Cupid, the benign and the malignant. Cupid bore complex and often contradictory meanings during the Renaissance so that at times he is benign, a figure for positive and civilizing love as we will see in some Tudor masks. But at others he is malignant, a negative tyrant who champions erotic passion over all human endeavor just as Petrarch had imagined him to be in the Trionfi.6 Busirane’s mask of Cupid begins as if it were “on the ready flore/Of some Theatre,” which suggests it is modeled on contemporary mask performances (III.xii.3). While the fact that there is no audience (except for the hidden Britomart) makes the production of such a mask strange and quite pointless— there is nothing to celebrate and no one to dance the concluding dance—Spenser later tells us in Book IV that Busirane’s mask also played at the wedding feast for Amoret and Scudamor: “Amidst the bridale feast” when all the guests were “surcharg’d with wine” that “same vile Enchauntour Busyran” “Brought in that mask of loue which late was showen” (IV.i.3). This latter context provides some explanation for what the mask is meant to celebrate—the formal consummation of a courtship. However, if Spenser does faithfully model Tudor spectacle in Busirane’s mask, he makes bewildering deviations by placing the Cupid of emblematic fame as the chief figure in a nuptial mask. Although much critical discussion explores the later masque tradition that reaches its zenith under Ben Jonson and Inigo Jones early in the seventeenth century, less attention has been drawn to the earlier forms of these entertainments, what George Puttenham in his 1589 6 The Renaissance view of Cupid is diverse and cannot be reduced to a simple “good” and “bad” figure; however, as Thomas Hyde has argued, the Busyrane episode is a dense blending of many strands of Spenser’s “theodicy of Cupid,” The Poetic Theology of Love: Cupid in Renaissance Literature (Newark: Univ. of Delaware Press, 1986), pp. 160–79. It is that blending that I explore.

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The Arte of English Poesie discusses as “poeticall rejoysings” or “triumphs.”7 Puttenham writes that these early “triumphs” primarily marked moments of public celebration, “& the chiefe was for the publike peace of a countrie.”8 They highlighted events of transitional importance such as royal entries, victory over an enemy, great occasions of state, or the alliance of nobility through dynastic marriage. Because these “triumphs” were often performed to celebrate transitional, ceremonial moments in the lives of the aristocracy and the court, they figure as the kinds of liminal rites that van Gennep and Turner describe. Tudor masks were liminal entertainments that celebrated rites of cultural significance, marking transitions from battle to victory, from singleness to alliance, from old monarch to new, from courtship to consummation. This last context, the use of masks to celebrate nuptials, has the most relevance for my reading of Busirane’s mask. Sarah Carpenter and Meg Twycross in Masks and Masking in Medieval and Early Tudor England argue for a kind of subgenre of Tudor masks, what they call “amorous masking,” that carried with it a certain erotic charge and encouraged flirtation while at the same time codifying the impulse of an erotic encounter.9 This variety of masking became popular with Henry VIII’s elaborate courtship spectacles for Katherine of Aragorn where the disguises were linked with erotic arousal. They continued to be popular throughout Elizabeth’s reign. In 1566 Queen Elizabeth attended at least two wedding masks; in 1573 there was “A mask showen at Grenewitche after the marriage of William Drurye esquire” and in 1595 Arthur Throgmorton makes use of a mask to regain favor at the wedding of William Earl of Derby to Lady Elizabeth Vere.10 Although few extant textual and visual representations of them exist in England, continental examples describe public pageants and nuptial, amatory masks that influenced the English celebrations.11 We can guess at the nature of English performances 7 George Puttenham, The Arte of English Poesie (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1970), p. 46. 8 Ibid., pp. 46–7. 9 Carpenter, Masks and Masking in Medieval and Early Tudor England, pp. 169–83. 10 For accounts of these see Chambers, The Elizabethan Stage, I. 162,68; Mary Susan Steele, Plays & Masques at Court During the Reigns of Elizabeth, James and Charles (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1926). 11 Roy Strong includes a calendar of major festival events and publications from 1491–1641 that took place on the continent and in England. Among these are fourteen wedding festivals before the year 1600. Of these fourteen, seven include

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by following Privy Council minutes and the detailed instructions for the triumphs surrounding the arrival, entry, and wedding ceremony given in Richard Pynson’s pamphlet, The Tradition and Marriage of the Princesse, for Prince Arthur and Katherine’s nuptials in 1501. They tell us that many masks performed at English weddings promoted the harmony of love, with Cupid figuring in his more benign aspects. The elaborate entertainments were presented to “to amplify and increase the royalty of this noble and solemn” occasion.12 The pageantmaster for the nuptials of Arthur and Katherine turned to the Le Trosne d’honneur of Jean Molinet for inspiration and borrowed heavily from its tropes of Platonic apotheosis as well as its astrological and classical motifs.13 The wedding ceremony itself included disguisings and a series of elaborate pageant cars designed by William Cornish, containing allegorical figures such as a “Fountain of the Three Worthies” that illustrated the united realms of England, France, and Spain. Another pageant contained the Knights of the Mount of Love who won the Castle of Ladies, showing how a “Castle” or “Castile” might capitulate to Knights of Love, or to “London.” Within these various pageants what becomes salient are the manners appropriate to lovers and the overriding symbolism of political union. According to Skiles Howard, the ordered proceedings of these earlier masks promoted equilibrium and eliminated destructive depictions of eroticism; the pageants’ dancing rehearsed the move of the “heterosexual couples” toward the signification of matrimony.14 Notably, at least in this dynastic wedding, erotic tableaux are suppressed in

descriptions of the event published at the time, and of these seven, three were also illustrated in Art and Power: Renaissance Festivals, 1450–1650 (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell Press, 1984), pp. 175–79. If Gordon Kipling is right, we can assume that the form might have been similar for the English weddings that have no surviving descriptions as he traces the transmission of Burgundian marriage ceremonies to England, The Triumph of Honour: Burgundian Origins of the Elizabethan Renaissance (The Hague: Published for the Sir Thomas Browne Institute by Leiden Univ. Press, 1977). For an example of what one of these ceremonies might have looked like, James Saslow provides documentation for the Medici wedding of 1589, The Medici Wedding of 1589: Florentine Festival as Theatrum Mundi (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1996). 12 Reprint of the descriptions of the wedding celebrations from Harleian MS 69, fols. 29–31 in Paul Reyher, Les Masques Anglais; Étude Sur Les Ballets Et La Vie De Cour En Angleterre (1512–1640) (New York: B. Blom, 1964), pp. 500–02. 13 For a full account, see A. H. Thomas and I. D. Thornley, ed., The Great Chronicle of London (London: Printed by G. W. Jones at the sign of the Dolphin, 1938), p. 310. 14 Skiles Howard, The Politics of Courtly Dancing in Early Modern England (Amherst: Univ. of Massachusetts Press, 1998), p. 40.

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favor of motifs furthering hierarchical political ends. Masking and marriage coded the erotic impulse into acceptable social outlets of formalized dance and ceremony. One painting from the period may serve to illustrate this point visually (Figure 1). Representing the principal stages of Sir Henry Unton’s life, death, and burial, one prominent tableau features him presiding over a banquet and mask—probably that of his wedding. The portrait was finished after his death, but was commissioned sometime around 1580 and offers, therefore, a glimpse into the performance of early amatory masks. Sir Henry sits at the table’s center with his wife at the right end. The maskers enter led by a green-clad huntsman, who addresses Lady Unton. The ten torchbearers look to be naked children, in black and white pairs, most likely representing the Cupids of Night and Day. Mercury, with Diana and six Nymphs’ take central roles, bearing garlands. The mask takes place in a great chamber or hall with two tables of guests. The foreground depicts an ascending and descending staircase around a group of musicians. Moving in a clockwise manner, the maskers circle with a drummer, with a trunchman holding a paper—most likely to provide topical meaning and interpretation to the maskers’ disguises—and with the Cupids bearing torches.15 The maskers wear rich, silver-colored costumes with sprays of red flowers in green leaves; their headdresses are also silver and garlanded, and masks of red cover their faces. The procession appears graceful, orderly, decorous, balanced and above all, harmonious. The figures move in pairs, and the dark and light Cupids, wearing trailing headdresses of red and white, suggest a balance between the powers of night and day. These Cupid figures resemble more the Italian putto, the small winged boy, than the cruel, lecherously leering unmasked Cupid of Busirane’s mask. The Cupid who appeared in nuptial masks would most likely have resembled those at Unton’s feast. These Cupids do not invoke eroticism or sexual appetite, but instead code an eroticism carefully checked by the mask’s circular rhythm and stately pace. The lighter Cupids, their decorous environment, and the harmonious pairing of black with white contain the darker figures and the more chaotic night and eroticism they evoke. In the larger painting, the mask scene represents one stage in the narrative of Henry Unton’s life. We also see him as a baby, as a

15

The OED lists “trunchman” as an interpreter. The trunchmen were often present at masks to offer glosses on the performance.

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Figure 1. The Life and Death of Sir Henry Unton ca. 1596

soldier and ambassador abroad, as a sick man on his deathbed, and, finally, in effigy being visited by his widow. Occupying a prominent space in the viewer’s right-hand side of the frame, the mask occurs in the central chamber of his house. To the right we see him being nursed and to the left we see his funeral procession winding out from the bottom of the house and ending in the church. The mask’s placement suggests that like birth and death, it marks a socially significant, ritual passage. It is a liminal rite that changes and confirms Unton’s place in the public sphere. For Arnold van Gennep, “liminality” marks an important transitional moment in an individual’s place within the larger culture; it marks moments of change from childhood to adulthood, from being single to being married, changes of the kind that we see represented in Unton’s portrait. The liminal rites (in this case, the mask) perform an important transitional ceremony that ushers the participants from one social stage into another. Typically, because the rites are about transition, there is an implied momentary pause or suspension between the two stages, a gap that van Gennep and Turner read as a space of “other,” outside the modes of usual social action. Liminal rituals scrutinize a culture’s central values and axioms because of their unique position as inbetween moments. Characters or entities that are liminal are neither what they were nor what they will be; they are “betwixt and between” categories of past and future social existence.16 Amatory masks, then,

16 Arnold van Gennep, Monika Vizedom, and Solon Toothaker Kimball, The Rites of Passage (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1960).

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served as liminal rites to prepare the individual to move between social categories. They were an important symbolic representation of love’s order in maintaining society. As Skiles Howard argues, wedding masks, pageants, and triumphs were designed to perform details of rank, gender, and political ideology subsumed under the harmony of political union, noble alliance, and dynastic marriage—not to promote the consuming heat, male appetite, and destructive passions of love.17 Erotic tableaux featuring the kind of Cupid we might see in Morley’s Trionfi of Petrarch typically do not figure in these ceremonies, as the evidence that we do have favors the representation of a more benign Cupid presiding at masks such as we see at Henry Unton’s feast. When Spenser tells us in Book IV that Cupid’s mask was also a wedding mask for Amoret and Scudamor, his revision of the mask tradition is conspicuous. Seeing a wedding mask that stages the Cupid of emblematic triumph tradition instead of the harmonious figures of Unton’s mask, evokes certain expectations only to undercut them. The idealized world typically portrayed by such celebrations undergoes a rude parody in Busirane’s halls. Considering the cultural function that masks could perform as markers of liminal rites of passage, Busirane’s amatory mask suggests the important public symbolism of dynastic marriage operative in Spenser’s narrative of Britomart and Artegall as founders of a dynastic line. In my reading, Cupid’s mask becomes an important liminal rite of passage not only for Amoret’s consummation of courtship with Scudamor, but also for Britomart. After all, it is her culminating battle and experience that punctuate Spenser’s third book. The mask’s status as a liminal rite parallels and reinforces Britomart’s identity as a liminal figure, especially in terms of her sexuality. As Turner notes, liminal entities are often coded through images of wilderness and bisexuality. During liminal passages the ritual subject’s identity becomes temporarily fluid; that is, normal social hierarchical distinctions such as class and gender oscillate and are even often momentarily suspended. Ambiguity looms large in the liminal process. Alone in the enchanted halls Britomart does indeed seem to be in a strange kind of wilderness and as a maiden appointed 17 The Politics of Courtly Dancing in Early Modern England, p. 40. For more on traditions of civic pageantry, see also David Moore Bergeron, English Civic Pageantry, 1558–1642, rev. ed. (Tempe: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2003); and Practicing Renaissance Scholarship: Plays and Pageants, Patrons and Politics (Pittsburgh: Duquesne Univ. Press, 2000).

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with armor and shield, she presents an ambiguous, double-gendered figure. She is “betwixt and between” as she rides as a maid disguised as a knight. As a maiden she loves, fears, and desires Artegall. As a knight she moves through the halls of Busirane with “welpointed weapons” and boldly passes through the rooms, to rescue the trembling Amoret.18 At the same time as she participates in both genders, she is strangely neither. Although she dresses as a knight and wields a sword, she remains underneath the armor female. But, she is not yet a woman (she has not been penetrated), neither is she a maid without desire. Her encounter with Cupid’s mask serves as a moment of ritual passage for her—a moment when she can question the nature of eroticism and its socially sanctioned fulfillment in marriage. The ambiguities of her nature as a maid, but also as a fierce and able knight, raise questions about what her identity will be. Merlin tells her that she will not be remembered for her heroic feats as a knight, but as a womb, famous for “fruits of matrimoniall bowre,” a mother of kings (III.iii.3). The nature of the quest itself, a quest of desire, love, marriage, and dynastic foundation, comes under pressure during Cupid’s mask. The liminal quality of the passage through the halls encourages her to address the threat and allure of eroticism to her identity as a chaste heroine and future dynastic founder. Busirane’s mask carries the connotations with it of a public celebration resonant with cultural symbolism that marks the passage of a woman from one state into another—from virgin to matron. This passage was supposed to happen to Amoret with Scudamor (and ultimately to Britomart with Artegall). However, as Spenser tells us, it is all too liminal for Amoret. She remains imperiled on the threshold, unable to escape and unable to progress. Britomart, on the other hand, passes boldly, but then turns back her eye in dismay at the decay wrought by her success, and emerges to continue wandering. The rite of passage does not conclude in the matrimonial bower for Britomart. In fact, she still has not even glimpsed her knight in the flesh. Spenser presents us with a disfigured rite of passage, one that 18 For the importance that gender plays in this incident see Maureen Quilligan, Milton’s Spenser: The Politics of Reading (Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 1983); Susanne Wofford, “Gendering Allegory: Spenser’s Bold Reader and the Emergence of Character in the Faerie Queene III,” Criticism 30, no. 1 (1988): 1–21. For more on Britomart’s playing the masculine see Donald Stump, “Fashioning Gender: CrossDressing in Spenser’s Legend of Britomart and Artegall,” Spenser Studies 15 (2001): 95–119.

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resembles a Tudor amatory mask, but one that warps the cultural values it is supposed to promote. Britomart’s successful passage through the mask (what many have read as her defeat of its twisted erotic fantasies) should solicit some troubling questions about the nature of the chastity she represents. Her progress through Busirane’s halls follows what Victor Turner describes as one of the major aspects of a liminal rite involving three steps—exhibitition, ludic play or action, and finally, re-integration and instruction into the community. In the first stage (exhibition), initiates see a communication of symbolically resonant objects that pertain to their passage and that instruct them how to progress. For Britomart, the exhibition hall of tapestries serves a similar function. She sees a parade of erotic images showing Cupid’s sport wrecking havoc on classical figures—Europa, Helle, Danae, Leda, Semelee— who are accosted by different forms of a shape-shifting Jove. In the second stage of Turner’s liminal rite (ludic play/action), the initiate encounters a ludic recombination of images from the first phase that encourages reflection on those former symbolic objects. The reflection culminates in the initiate’s action and passage. Masks, distorted images, bizarre configurations often confront the liminal subjects to disrupt accustomed ways of thought and encourage speculation. Busirane’s mask with its strange troupe who “moue a comely pace” and in its horror “shewd a seemely grace” (III.xii.19) seems just such a reconfiguration of the harmonious amatory mask and Renaissance pageants it parodies. According to Turner, after reflection the initiate is expected to know how to act to successfully move through to the final stage in the rite of passage. The final stage, instruction and return to the community, erodes distinctions of previous status and enhances knowledge about how things work.19 In other words, having seen and determined how to act, the figure returns to the community with a greater understanding of his or her new place. The public performance and ritual texture of liminality in Cupid’s mask harks back to Tudor traditions of masking and registers an important context for reading Britomart’s experience in Busirane’s halls. It suggests what should happen—the mask ushers in a harmonious dynastic union and return to community after consummation. In Britomart’s case, her rite of passage suggests an initiation into eroticism and the sexual knowledge it connotes without the sanctity of marriage. 19

Turner, “Religious Celebrations,” pp. 203–06.

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While thus far I have been stressing the public ideal harmony that wedding masks were meant to promote (as Unton’s decorous mask depicts) and that Spenser retools by featuring the darker Cupid of the emblematic tradition, George Puttenham records that wedding masks, in addition to affirming the harmony and concord of love, have another function, one that comes closer to justifying Amoret’s fear at her own bridal feast, and one that Spenser pulls from the background into the foreground. While outwardly masks encode erotic harmony, behind the decorous façade lurks a darker purpose. According to Puttenham, wedding celebrations were divided into several sections. The first section celebrated the moment when the woman and her husband were brought to the bedroom chamber threshold. In the antechamber to that bridal room would be a large number of ladies and gentlemen who would perform the celebration in “tunes” that “were very loude and shrill” so that those without would not hear what happened in the next room: “to the intent there might be noo noise be hard out of the bed chamber by the skreeking & outcry of the young damosell feeling the first forces of her stiffe & rigorous young man, the being as all virgins tender & weake, & unexpert in those maner of affairs” up until around “midnight or one of the clocke.”20 The “skreeking” of the “young damosell” drowned out by the celebratory noise recalls the plight of Amoret who is bound to a “brasen pillour” (III.xii.30) with her “hart” “seeming transfixed with a cruell dart” (31) while the guests continued “bent to mirth” (IV.i.3). Her fear of crossing the threshold literally binds her in the form of Busirane’s torments as she writhes bound to his bronze pillar. On the one hand, then, the public pageant of wedding masks idealizes the harmony of love. Such idealization glosses over the kinds of fears that Puttenham describes and that immobilize Amoret and that threaten Britomart. Amatory masks disguise the underlying sexual threat to the “young damosell” by her “stiffe & rigorous young man.” They hide the psychological (as well as physical) trauma of sexual love from the virgin bride. Britomart, however, experiences this darker side in her rite of passage through the explicit erotic display of Busirane’s mask. Critics often remark on the strangeness of Britomart’s solitary encounter with Cupid’s mask and ask just where the mask of love happens: Is the phantasmagoric hall and mask a convoluted and 20

Puttenham, The Arte of English Poesie, pp. 51–2.

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parodic interior vision of the political and social celebrations normally associated with marriage? Is it simply an illusion or, more critically, Britomart’s self-delusion?21 During the mask’s performance at her wedding feast, by a sleight of hand, or “by way of sport, as oft in maskes is knowen,” Amoret is “Conueyed quite away to liuing wight unknowen” (IV.i.3). Spenser’s language here is as slippery as Busirane himself as Alastair Fowler pointed out long ago. The grammar allows for two possible interpretations; first, Busirane ferrets Amoret away without the wedding guests noticing; second, Amoret experiences Busirane’s enchantments “internally, without anyone knowing.”22 The second reading implies that a strong internal psychological dimension also drives this episode. Moreover, beyond Fowler’s point, these same two interpretations must apply to Britomart, through whose gaze we watch the pageant.23 Amoret’s experience shows Britomart’s peril. Van Gennep and Turner’s theory details both a cultural and psychological aspect to liminal rituals. With the example of amatory Tudor masks, we have a template for what kinds of cultural rites Busirane’s mask should perform. But we also have a template for the kinds of psychological change that a liminal ritual enacts on the initiates. It prepares them psychologically for a change of station and identity. The mask’s links to the literary tradition of allegorical triumphs supply another angle for reading its psychological consequences for Britomart. It is in understanding this second, private, narrative context for the mask that we move into the erotic territory mapped out by George Bataille in Eroticism: Death and Sensuality.24 Bataille is often identified with a kind of perverse eroticism, one that finds delight in the darker recesses of Cupid’s wings where voyeurism, fetishism, and sadomasochism recall the cruelest Cupid of Petrarch. For Bataille, eroticism goes beyond sexual appetite and the reproductive drive. It 21 The formulation comes from the A. C. Hamilton, The Spenser Encyclopedia (Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 1990), pp. 459–60. 22 Alastair Fowler, Triumphal Forms: Structural Patterns in Elizabethan Poetry (Cambridge: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1970), p. 51. 23 While I agree with Judith Anderson’s point that the representation of this site “is finally the poet’s as are all the figures within it,” the fact that we see the representation of that site through Britomart suggests its special pertinence for her as the major figure of Book III. Judith Anderson, “Busirane’s Place: The House of Rhetoric,” Spenser Studies 17 (2003): 133–50 at 33. 24 Georges Bataille, Eroticism, trans. Mary Dalwood (San Francisco: City Lights, 1986). All quotations are taken from this translation and cited by page number.

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is a psychological state bound up with transgression, emotions of fear, hate, loss of self-identity, and aching desire. He lingers over the darker aspects of sexuality to provide a way of reading how integral these emotions are to a complete erotic experience. In Bataille’s theory, the erotic experience ushers the initiate into the essence of what it means to be human—an encompassing of both the beautiful and the terrible. For him an individual can only be fully realized through an erotic understanding, which invokes the best and worst of human nature. It is in the erotic frame that the individual most strongly feels all the conflict of identity as both private and public, separate and part of a larger social tapestry. To read Britomart’s passage through Busirane’s halls as a liminal rite of passage into eroticism suggests that she cannot simply reject the destructive, distorted views of love that she sees there. Many readers have noted that while Cupid’s mask is remarkably orderly and hierarchical (Spenser himself does say that it was a company “In manner of a maske, enranged orderly”), the figures themselves parody order and are more in line with a Jonsonian antimasque troupe than a harmonious procession such as we see in Unton’s wedding mask.25 Like the triumphs of love in Francesco Colonna’s Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (part of which was printed and translated in England in 1592), the mask figures evoke a Bataillean vision of chaotic eroticism and conjure the tyrant Cupid. Spenser’s Cupid in Busirane’s mask recalls the Cupid of emblematic fame that Geoffrey Whitney represents in his emblem reproducing Andreas Alciati’s Potentissimus affectus, amor (Figure 2). In this vision of a Cupid triumphant, we see not the putto Cupid of Unton’s wedding mask, but Cupid seated in a chariot flogging a pair of lions who draw his chariot forward.26 This lion-whipping Cupid embodies an erotic mastery

25 E. B. Fowler argues the mask combines both the Renaissance triumph and medieval processional form of the court of love, Spenser and the System of Courtly Love (New York: Phaeton Press, 1968). Roche in The Kindly Flame (1964) notes that the first six couples represent an allegorical courtship progression (78). Alastair Fowler (1970) discusses the numerical significance of the figures and notes that the total of 33 “symbolizes false chastity” (52). 26 For more on the significance of the emblem see Arthur F. Marotti, “Animal Symbolism in the Faerie Queene: Tradition and the Poetic Context,” Studies in English Literature 5 (1965): 69–86. Laurel Hendrix argues that Spenser plays with the emblem tradition, reversing two separate paradigms of love to counter moral commonplaces in the pursuit of a poetics of deferral, “Pulchritudo Vincit?: Emblematic Reversals in Spenser’s House of Busirane,” Spenser Studies 16 (2002): 23–54.

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Figure 2. Whitney, A Choice of Emblems, 1586

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that Spenser describes earlier in canto vi: a “winged boy” who with “spoiles and cruelty/Ransackt the world” and “Of many wretches set his triumphes hye” (III.vi.49). The text below Whitney’s emblem describes a similar vision of violence where the lions are kept in awe: “They couche, and draw, and do the whippe abide.”27 In Busirane’s vision, Cupid follows after the tortured Amoret, “riding on a Lion rauenous” with his eyes unbound that he might look on his “proud spoyle” (III.xii.22). Fancy, Desyre, Doubt, Daunger, Feare, Hope, Dissemblance, Suspect, Griefe, Fury, Displeasure, Pleasance, Despight, and Cruelty pass by in front of Britomart, each awarded an emblematic description paralleling the emblematic triumph tradition not only in Petrarch and Colonna, but also in popular emblem images such as those of Whitney. Griefe wears sorrowful sable and holds a “paire of Pincers” with which he “pinched people to the hart”; Fury appears in rags, and tears her garments and hair while tossing a firebrand; Cruelty looks like a “dreary Spright” who is “Cald by strong charmes out of eternall night” and who figures “deathes owne image” in her face; a confused rout of others follow from “Lewd Losse of time” to “Consuming Riotise.” Concluding the masked procession of figures is “death with infamie” (III.xii.16,17,19,25). These figures present the darker “night” aspect of Cupid without the balance of “day” that Unton’s mask provides. They are the coercive and aggressive side to the armed Cupid who shakes his darts, and “clapt on hie his coulourd winges” and makes all his train to quake, the Cupid who is carefully excised from actual Tudor masks and triumphs (III.xii.23). Bataille’s insights into erotic experience matter here because he argues that truly to experience the erotic means to engage the kinds of grotesque perversions we see in Busirane’s hall. As Bataille writes, “the stirrings within us have their own fearfull excesses; the excesses show which way these stirrings would take us.”28 The excess of emotion and mutation of form that Britomart sees in the hall and in the mask suggest where her own desire might lead. Since she identifies as a martial maid, the suggestion that her desire for Artegall might end only in “death with infamie” would be anathema. Busirane’s tortures are not simply a demonic parody of real love, but also they reveal something about the nature of love

27 28

Geffrey Whitney, A Choice of Emblemes (New York: B. Blom, 1967), p. 63. Bataille, Eroticism, p. 19.

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itself.29 As Jon Quitslund notes, this episode “suggests that something in the dynamic of true love brings its demonic Other into play, in the lover’s imagination if not at the heart of desire itself.”30 Pushing Quitslund’s point further, I argue that these perversions are the erotic and this is one of the things that Britomart learns. She sees Busirane’s maskers are a necessary component for the kind of self-awareness and ultimately self-dissolution (a return to the community in Turner’s passage) that an erotic liminal rite can enact. For Georges Bataille, eroticism entails not simple sexual activity, but also a psychological quest for identity. The fundamental impulse of the erotic seeks to break down individual identity: “the whole business of eroticism is to destroy the self-contained character of the participators.”31 Britomart’s quest is to find the knight she saw in the mirror, to ultimately lose her identity as the “warlike mayde” and become the founder of a dynasty. Bataille suggests that dissolution of selfhood and coalescence with another cannot happen without violence. Britomart can discover more about her own sexuality and move forward through the liminal passage only by taking on all of Busirane’s horrors. The first phase follows her wandering through the tapestry hall with its amorous exploits and fulfills the “exhibition” stage of Turner’s liminal ritual of passage where the initiate sees symbolic representations that reveal the nature of inscrutable experiences such as love. The woven images in the tapestries nearly overwhelm Britomart: “That wondrous sight faire Britomart amazed/Ne seeing could her wonder satisfie/But euermore and more upon it gazed,/The while the passing brightnes her sences dazed” (III.xi.49). In this stage of the ritual, the liminal figure becomes a kind of voyeur. Turner’s exhibition stage calls for a kind of intense scrutiny that parallels Bataille’s description of the voyeuristic gaze, the first phase of an erotic encounter. Britomart needs to gaze with “busie eye,” to read what the images tell her, and understand what they portend in order

29 Angus Fletcher considers Busirane’s tortures to be a demonic parody and Robert Wood argues that despite the vividness of this episode it represents a relatively early moment in Britomart’s adventures and that the “specter of a destructive conflict between the sexes [has] been banished before the Britomart-Artegall romance begins,” “Britomart at the House of Busyrane,” South Atlantic Bulletin 43, no. 2 (1978): 5–11 at 11. Angus Fletcher, The Prophetic Moment; an Essay on Spenser (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1971). 30 Jon A. Quitslund, Spenser’s Supreme Fiction: Platonic Natural Philosophy and the Faerie Queene (Toronto: Univ. of Toronto Press, 2001), p. 162. 31 Bataille, Eroticism, p. 17.

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to act (III.xi.50). Britomart gazes at the frozen moments of the classical figures’ tormented love depicted in the tapestries and of the loathsome figures in the mask procession. She sees revealing myths about the nature of love and eroticism among the classical gods. From these images, Britomart might well conclude that indifference (Europa) and even repulsion of love (Danae who keeps “the’yron dore fast bard”) make no difference in the outcome of an erotic encounter (III.xi.31). Neither strategy keeps the pillages of love at bay. But if she were to look carefully, she might also note how Leda seems complicit in desire as “She slept, yet twixt her eyelids closely spyde” the onrushing swan (III.xi.32). These woven images show the ravages of eroticism, but they also suggest a connivance that Britomart recognizes and later engages in herself when she fights by sleight, rather than by might. They also hint that there might be some complicity on the part of Britomart as she spies the onrushing Busirane later. It is her voyeurism that teaches her how to act and rescue Amoret. It also implicates her in Busirane’s erotic vision. Because she has often been understood only to look (rather than to act), Britomart is believed to gain interpretive distance. A detached overseer, she stands at the threshold of the exhibition put on by Busirane. It is this sense of interpretive distance that has led many critics to believe that Britomart remains unaware of the implications of what passes before her—she remains, in a word, chaste, uninfected by Busirane’s visions of a cruel, dominating Cupid spurring on his lions and leaving in his wake a train of chaotic emotions and pierced, mangled flesh. The argument runs that because she stands separate, removed, she vanquishes Busirane and emerges a stronger representative of chastity.32 I want to suggest a different reading. Reading Britomart not as only a passive spectator, but also as a voyeur gives her paradoxically a more active role.33 As Bataille details, a voyeur does not just watch; the sexual acts she sees stimulate her 32 Joanna Thompson admits that the “wholeness” of Britomart stems in part from her “refusal to deny her sexuality,” but argues that Britomart ultimately can be aligned with Protestant models of chaste marital love. By implication, Britomart rejects Cupid and his destructive, distorted notions of love: “Encompassing the virtue of chaste desire, Britomart displays a God-given sexual impulse bound by temperance that is quite distinct from the lustful carnality capable of expression through courtly love,” The Character of Britomart in Spenser’s The Faerie Queene (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 2001), pp. 126–33 at p. 32. 33 The problems of vision and “gazing” in Spenser are a source of ongoing interest in Spenser studies, but of greatest relevance to the problems surrounding wedding feasts and lavish public display that encourages “the gaze,” see Sheila T. Cavanagh,

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own desire. A voyeur is never fully innocent or detached from that which she looks at but becomes implicated in the process of gazing. Gazing upon the erotic tableaux of the tapestries triggers Britomart’s own confusion about desire and she pauses to look harder. As William Oram succinctly remarks, when Britomart passes through the wall of flame, she slows down.34 Stanza after stanza describe how “rich metall lurked priuily,/as faining to be hid from enuious eye” that “here, and there” would show itself as if by accident, “Like a discolourd Snake, whose hidden snares/Through the greene gras his long bright burnisht backe declares” (III.xi.28). Her fascination suggests danger. Not only has she slowed her forward pace, the simile of the room’s contents to a hidden snake connotes a sinister environment that calls for swift action and movement, not more looking and longer gazing; yet, for twenty-six stanzas Britomart (and the reader) “lookt about” (III.xii.54). The more she looks, the more she becomes implicated in what she sees. The Renaissance commonplace that desire springs from the beams of the lover’s eyes reminds us of the interface between sight and the affect of desire. In Astrophil and Stella Sidney writes that “what we call Cupid’s dart / An image is, which for ourselves we carve.”35 In other words, we bear responsibility for the image we see of love. Like the voyeur whose own appetite is stimulated by what she sees, the tapestries mirror all of Britomart’s fears, desire and, possibly, her fantasies. As we know from her lament by the sea, she keenly feels the torments of “Cupid’s dart” from the image that she saw in her father’s mirror. According to Bataille, the real danger for the voyeur, however, is vertigo. As the voyeur gazes, and feels desire, it becomes difficult to establish the boundaries between the object and the subjective emotions: the line between the external stimulus and internal emotion breaks down, resulting in confusion and momentary loss of identity. This loss of identity is also suggested by Turner’s formulation of the liminal subject’s ambiguity in the first two phases of a rite of passage.

Wanton Eyes and Chaste Desires: Female Sexuality in the Faerie Queene (Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press, 1994); Kenneth Gross, Spenserian Poetics: Idolatry, Iconoclasm, and Magic (Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 1985); Theresa M. Krier, Gazing on Secret Sights: Spenser, Classical Imitation, and the Decorums of Vision (Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press, 1990), esp. chapter 4. 34 “Spenserian Paralysis,” Studies in English Literature 41, no. 1 (2001): 49–70 at 60. 35 Sonnet 5 from Astrophil and Stella. Katherine Duncan Jones, ed., Sir Philip Sidney: A Critical Edition of the Major Works (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1989), p. 154.

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Such confusion is what breeds Britomart’s peril and imperils her crossing the threshold and completing her quest to rescue Amoret. All she has at this point in the narrative is an illusory image seen quite tellingly in a mirror, a site where normally all she would see would be her own reflection. Her subsequent very real, turbulent emotions stem from this reflection. For Britomart, who in the larger quest of Book III pursues a vision of Artegall—a vision based on the belief that the knight she saw in Merlin’s mirror represents a real knight—there is a psychological and emotional stake in her erotic object’s external existence. However, the sights in Busirane’s palace seem arranged to arouse her awareness of the insubstantiality of erotic objects and throw into question her pursuit of what may be only deceptive desire. The tapestries, the statue, and the maskers all vanish leaving only the memory of their existence. Does Britomart see Busirane’s vision or her own? Like Bataille’s voyeur, the ability to determine what is outside (an external object of eroticism) and what inside (an internal, narcissistic projection) complicates Britomart’s psychological quest. As she stands in the “solemne silence” of the hall looking at the “thousand monstrous formes” of love (III.xi.53/51), her fate as a “warlike Mayde” seems possibly foretold in the fallen warriors just mentioned who “wrought their owne decayes” (III.xi.53/52). As Britomart gazes on the spoil of these noble figures in love’s thrall, she herself stands in the strange position between voyeur and heroic knight. During the mask itself she is described as “plast/In secret shade” where she sees both “first and last” (III.xii.27). She casts her “busie eye” to “search each secret” of the rooms and “did greatly wonder” and “ne could satisfie/Her greedy eyes with gazing a long space” (III.xi.50,53). Her behavior is reminiscent of Leda who “twixt her eyelids closely spyde” (III.xi.32). In this exhibition stage Britomart cannot just look. To look is to engage, moving her, I argue, into an erotic frame.36 Unlike the timid Amoret, who does not move beyond the role of a passive, horrified spectator and a victim, Britomart moves from the exhibition phase into action, the second step in Turner’s liminal 36

On the complex psychological allegory of this passage see Felicity A. Hughes, “Psychological Allegory in the Faerie Queene III.xi–xii,” Review of English Studies 29 (1978) 129–46; Benjamin G. Lockerd, The Sacred Marriage: Psychic Integration in the Faerie Queene (Lewisburg, London: Bucknell Univ. Press, 1987); Shirley F. Staton, “Reading Spenser’s Faerie Queene in a Different Voice,” in Ambiguous Realities, ed. Carole Levine and Jeanie Watson (Detroit: Wayne State Univ. Press, 1987), pp. 145–62.

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passage. It is Britomart’s action that further complicates a straightforward moral reading of this passage. If already we view her as a voyeur, complicit in what she sees, her action can be read as compromise and as the actions of one schooled in the arts of Busirane’s eroticism. After spending the first two days and nights as a voyeur of Busirane’s visions of love “wandering/And gazing on that Chambers ornament” (III.xii.29), Britomart stands on the third night again before the doorway with the inscription “Be not too bold.” At this crucial moment, the text becomes ambiguous. We know from the previous cantos that after the first showing of Cupid’s mask, she “issewed forth, and went unto the dore” but could not open it with even the most “rigorous uprore” (III.xii.27). When she realizes that “force might not auaile” she takes a page from Busirane’s book: “there sleights and art/She cast to use” (III.xii.28). She realizes that her masculine disguise and power as a knight that had unhorsed so many rivals avail nothing. She must fight guile with guile. When Britomart first sees the masks of Cupid in the enchanted chamber, the maskers “forth issewd” from beyond the “yron wicket” (II.xii.3). After they have passed, she “issewed forth, and went unto the dore” (III.xii.27). A. C. Hamilton proposes in his textual notes that the chiasmus of “forth issewd” and “issewed forth” suggests that Britomart plays a role in the mask.37 The ambiguous pronoun “her” from canto 29 reinforces this reading. We see “her” “courered with her sable vestiment” when the brazen door flies open at midnight (III.xii.29). The pronoun is ambiguous because it can be read as applying to “the second euening” or to Britomart (III.xii.29). If the latter, then the text would seem to solidify the suggestion that Britomart enacts a role in Cupid’s pageant as she dons a mask costume, a “sable vestiment.” When the door flies open, she enters into the final room and finds the “woefull Ladie” Amoret and surprises the “vile Enchaunter” who in his haste topples his wicked books (III.xii.30,31). The combination of the implication that she fights guile with guile and Busirane’s surprise at her appearance in the final chamber support the reading of Britomart entering the third room not by masculine force but by sleight, a sleight I read as her performance in the mask. Her performance as one of the maskers disguises her entrance into the sorcerer’s den. Britomart’s voyeurism

37

Textual note to stanza III.xii.27 in Hamilton, ed., Spenser: The Faerie Queene.

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teaches her how to enact a role within Busirane’s chaotic triumph of love, a role she has been schooled in while wandering about the outer chambers. The suggestion of chastity appearing as one of the maskers with Dissemblance, Suspect, Daunger, and Doubt for at least a moment makes her one of the horrors of Cupid’s train. Her success relies on participation in the perversions of Busirane’s mask— a participation that cannot but compromise her as a figure of venerated chastity since either she or the chastity she represents looks different when imagined as part of the darker eroticism represented by Busirane. The vanishing of the maskers when she enters through the third door—leaving her to face Busirane—marks her move into the final stage of the liminal rite of passage. It is here that the initiate receives instructions and prepares for return to the community. In the nuptial mask, this moment would coincide with the tender bride encountering the stiff, rigorous groom as Puttenham so vividly notes. Britomart sees a perversion of this consummation: Amoret stands immobilized, her heart bleeding and pierced through, bound to a pillar. Britomart leaps from being a voyeur into action, striking the astounded Busirane. He struggles against her and turns his “murderous knife” from Amoret and “unwares it stroke” into Britomart’s “snowie chest/That little drops empurpled her faire brest” (III.xii.33). In the mêlée, the sorcerer’s knife penetrates her breast; she is literally penetrated by the sorcerer himself. The wound “were nothing deepe imprest” but it drives Britomart to a fury that overcomes her sense and she nearly slays the enchanter, except that Amoret speaks to remind her that only he can undo the spell (III.xii.33). While Britomart does not experience consummation at the end of this mask, she nonetheless has been penetrated. This penetration marks her move out of liminality because it labels her as a woman, a figure that can be penetrated rather than penetrating. She bears this wound, and this knowledge, with her as she leaves to return to the world outside the halls. Britomart’s instruction in this final stage of eroticism pierces her physically and emotionally, pushing her to lose objectivity and to rage in fierce anger. The high passion of her engagement recalls the high dudgeon of Guyon as he razes the bower of bliss in the final trial of Book II. To have destroyed Busirane would have meant her failure as Amoret’s release relies on Busirane’s unwinding of the spell. And while Busirane does unbind the spell and release Amoret, his knife wound remains in Britomart’s chest, suggesting the one substantial

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act in this hall where everything else vanishes with reversal. It may not be a mortal wound, but it draws chaste blood. What are we to make of this liminal passage that concludes with a virgin rescued and chastity pierced? My argument thus far suggests two possibilities for Britomart’s behavior in the final canto of Book III. First, she loses interpretive distance because of her voyeuristic gazing at the erotic show of Cupid’s mask, and by enacting a role in that mask she fails fully to embody the virtue of chastity, just as Guyon’s radical destruction of the bower of bliss has often been read as a lapse of temperance. Her pierced breast remains as a symbol of that failure, just as her backward glance suggests regret at the destruction of Busirane’s erotic vision—a gesture that in itself evokes Lot’s wife who turns back for one last glimpse of her beloved city of Sodom and becomes a pillar of salt. Second, Britomart’s voyeurism and ultimate engagement in both the erotic and liminal aspects of Busirane’s halls facilitate her own struggle with desire and her quest for the knight in the mirror. This second reading suggests that if we read this episode as a liminal rite of passage into eroticism, we realize that once she becomes aware of her own ambivalence toward desire, she can confront it. For Britomart to triumph over Busirane, she must engage with his vision, and feel the erotic pull of desire as the absolute loss of objective vision. Part of the liminal experience involves action and Britomart acts by becoming a part of the mask spectacle, engaging all her worst fears regarding the potentially destructive nature of desire. She succeeds not because she is unaware of the implications of what she sees, but because she is fully aware, sees the show and dances in it. She is not seduced, but she does not ignore the danger of eroticism; she sees it for what it is. Her liminal rite of passage shows her doing what Milton says Spenser does best; he shows his figures engaging temptation in order to triumph over it. I think we need to hold both interpretations. The implication, however, of reading both possibilities portrays a Britomart who paradoxically succeeds because she fails. She rescues Amoret; she binds Busirane with his own “greate chaine” (III.xii.41); she completes the quest and rite of passage as they exit the halls. But her dismay at the decay of the “goodly roomes” shadows her triumph (III.xii.42). She realizes that the halls, like the mask, were ultimately ephemeral. The performance has ended, but the memory lingers in Britomart and the audience. Britomart has pulled down the theater of perverse

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desire, yet finds it somehow still calling to her. Her enacting a role in the mask affects her in a way that cannot simply be reversed, undone, and erased as Busirane “those same bloudy lines reherse[s]” (III.xii.36). As Busirane’s charms “back to reuerse” and the house begins to quake, horror fills “the virgins hart” and her “faire locks up stared stiffe on end” (III.xii.36), but she cannot reverse her rite of passage nor erase the knowledge she gained. The erasure can never be fully complete as we as readers return again and again to the images presented in this passage and Britomart leaves the hall penetrated by the sorcerer’s knife—both literally and metaphorically. Most perplexing of all perhaps is that despite her witness to the “full dreadfull things out of that balefull booke” of Busirane’s violent vision of Cupid, she experiences an emotion of dismay when they vanish. This backward glance by the victorious Britomart suggests a complex paradoxical view of what has happened in the hall. Busirane’s vision may be proved an illusory fraud, but the frantic intensity of it leaves a wound in Britomart’s breast and carves an image that remains at the forefront of consciousness, compelling and seductive for all its energy. The dark vision of Busirane cannot be banished and Britomart’s initiation through the liminal passage is just that, an initiation, not an exorcism. Reading Busirane’s mask as a liminal rite of passage into eroticism—something we can do only by recognizing its place within the tradition of Renaissance spectacles and pageantry—rather than as the culminating battle of Book III changes how we read Britomart’s triumph. Unlike the Redcrosse Knight and Guyon from the first two books, Britomart’s quest continues unresolved into successive books. She completes the liminal rite of passage, but she remains without her knight. Instead of seeing Busirane’s halls and mask as something she battles, conquers, then leaves behind, if we read her encounter with Busirane as a liminal rite of passage it suggests that we look not at what she defeats, but what she carries with her on the rest of her quest. Tudor masks and the cultural vision they were designed to project show an idealized concord and dynastic stability. They suggest that through participation, the maskers and dancers enact a displaced eroticism where a gentler Cupid, Platonic hierarchy and political harmony rule. Britomart experiences a disfigured rite as we have seen by comparing Busirane’s mask with Tudor amatory masks such as those accompanying Arthur and Katherine’s nuptials or Sir Henry Unton’s wedding banquet. Britomart experiences no true

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consummation nor finds concord at the conclusion of Cupid’s mask. The seeming order of Cupid’s train only enhances its individual disorderly figures, who disintegrate into a hurried confusion, breaking the mask’s supposed harmony and its ability to bring about unity. There is only the anti-masque. At the beginning of Book IV both she and Amoret continue to wander. Britomart’s participation in such a botched rite facilitates her passage, but her triumph, like the twisted mask, remains tainted. Britomart’s own quest may be compromised suggesting why this will not be her final test—the conclusion to Book III prefigures further emotional chaos.38 As Turner and van Gennep outline, moving out of a liminal stage involves loss. Britomart has lost innocence. She has been penetrated. Her loss of innocence and her penetrability serve to move her away from her identity as a warrior maiden impervious to the spear thrusts of other knights and toward the dynastic role Merlin foresaw. Britomart’s dismay at the vanishing rooms signals a recognition that part of her is also vanishing without a replacement. It also suggests that there is some complicity on her part in those halls that she relished. There are no wedding bells, only a deeper knowledge of eroticism. Britomart’s backward glance once more at the marvels of Busirane’s hall forces us as readers to always see a double vision of the erotic: Anteros can never fully banish or erase Eros; a darker understanding of erotic knowledge shadows her triumph as she continues her quest. Even as the episode works to extinguish the tormented vision of Busirane, it imaginatively amplifies it while deferring the harmonious vision of Britomart’s marriage. Her liminal passage has marked her with a dark vision of the erotic that cannot simply be undone. Spenser’s attempt to contain eroticism’s darker force yields a double-natured eros fraught with potential negativity and danger even as it supposedly functions ultimately as a positive force for the marriage between Britomart and Artegall. There is no simple triumph.

38 Mary Grellner also has read this as a foreshadowing of more trouble for Britomart, but does not read it, as I do, as also an indication of ambiguous triumph. Mary Adelaide Grellner, “Britomart’s Quest for Maturity,” Studies in English Literature 8, no. 1 (1968): 35–43 at 40.

SPECTACLE AND THE FANTASY OF IMMATERIALITY: AUTHORSHIP AND MAGIC IN JOHN A KENT AND JOHN A CUMBER Nora Johnson*

For some time now, critics have been at pains to detail the tensions between modern authorship and early modern theatrical spectacle. Following Foucault’s description of the author as a limiting figure, “the principle of thrift in the proliferation of meaning,” scholars of early modern drama have emphasized the inappropriateness of such a notion in the theatrical milieu.1 Spectacle is—or we have generally assumed it to be—collaborative, material, subject to the wayward energies of performance, governed by the exigencies of the body. Constructing the author in the realm of theatrical spectacle would require, then, a process of subordinating the material, the wayward, and the collaborative in order to locate a fantasy of control and/or origin in an individual figure. Such authorial fantasy has seemed alien to the early modern playing companies, which emphasized physical display, encouraged improvisation and actorial independence, often preferred collaborative writing arrangements, and manifested only intermittent interest in the opportunities presented by a burgeoning print culture. But there are, here and there, figures who have articulated a relationship to the spectacle of the stage that we recognize as authorial. When Ben Jonson, a playwright known for his laureate ambitions, writes of the loathed stage, or when he quarrels with Inigo Jones over the primacy of the text over scenery and costume, he clearly is struggling to wield an authority that subordinates spectacle to personal genius.2 Self-declared origin and controller, Jonson constructs * I am grateful to Scott Black, Betsy Bolton, Claire Busse, Jane Hedley, Laura McGrane, Steve Newman, Julian Yates, and especially to Lauren Shohet for assistance with this essay that exceeds the scope of individual citation. 1 Michel Foucault, “What is an Author?” in The Foucault Reader, ed. Paul Rabinow (New York: Pantheon Books, 1984) 118. 2 D. J. Gordon, “Poet and Architect: The Intellectual Setting of the Quarrel between Ben Jonson and Inigo Jones,” in The Renaissance Imagination, ed. Stephen

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his role as author in a way that critics have found strikingly prescient, observing protocols that are variously associated with absolutism, modern subjectivity, and property ownership. In preferring the text/spirit of the masque to its “bodily part,” in separating himself from the influence of patrons, in attempting to link the judgment of a paying audience to the price of admission, Jonson establishes an apparent disregard for the material, the spectacular, and the financial that resonates with our own investment in the author as a controlling subject.3 For all that Jonson’s career is bound up with staging, his efforts to transcend the materiality of performance read to us as explicitly anti-theatrical.4 If we read Jonson as constructing theatrical authorship in and through anti-theatricality, so too we have read Shakespeare’s Prospero as an author-figure who cannot wait to bid farewell to the insubstantial pageant of the stage. He fails as Duke of Milan, after all, because he prefers private study to public engagement, and his return to Milan will be the occasion of further seclusion as his “[e]very third thought” will be of the grave.5 In the famous lines from The Tempest so often taken as Shakespeare’s own farewell to theatrical work, the emphasis upon the destruction of spectacle is clear: Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air; And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, Orgel (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1975) 77–101. For other constructions of authorship in the theatrical milieu, see Nora Johnson, The Actor as Playwright in Early Modern Drama (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). 3 Masque of Blackness, lines 71–2, in Stephen Orgel, Ben Jonson: The Complete Masques (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1969) 50. 4 For a path-breaking study, see Richard Helgerson, Self-Crowned Laureates: Spenser, Jonson, Milton and the Literary System (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983). Helgerson’s description of Jonson’s double-bind is particularly useful: “So long as the pressure to define himself remained strong, so long, that is, as the accurate construal of his status remained in doubt, he could be a laureate poet in the theater only by opposing the theater” (160). See also Jonas A. Barish, “Jonson and the Loathèd Stage,” in A Celebration of Ben Jonson, ed. William Blissett et al. (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1973) 27–53. 5 David Bevington, ed., The Complete Works of Shakespeare, fourth edition, (New York: Harper Collins, 1992) 5.1.315. Further reference to The Tempest will be to this edition and will appear parenthetically within the text.

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And like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. (4.1.148–56)

Though the tone here is of wistful regret rather than feisty antagonism, Prospero, like Jonson, builds something we have wanted to call “authorial” out of the impulse to diminish what we see before us on the stage.6 Both Jonson and Prospero, of course, are taking positions that are deeply disingenuous, or at very least fraught with paradox. Prospero here is deriving authority both from his power to stage the masque of Ceres and from his clear-sightedness about the transience of the physical. He is, moreover, going to continue running things for another whole act; this speech is neither Prospero’s nor Shakespeare’s farewell to anything. Like Jonson, who surely gains prestige from the glamour of Inigo Jones’s sets and from his courtly patronage, Prospero has his hand in the till, reaping the benefits of spectacular entertainment even while seeming to turn his back on it.7 It is tempting to want to argue that Jonson and Prospero stand out for us as anachronisms in the construction of theatrical authorship because the stances they take are related to nascent forms of absolutism, emphasizing personal sovereignty over text and performance 6 Alvin B. Kernan reads the connection between Prospero and authorship as an expression of desire for “some pure theater of the imagination, free of the limitations of real actors, stages, and audiences” that represents “the full potential of the playwright’s art” [The Playwright as Magician: Shakespeare’s Image of the Poet in the English Public Theater (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979) 135]. Later critics pursuing the play’s representation of theatrical work have been more interested in the ways in which The Tempest resonates with the conditions of early modern playing. David M. Bergeron comments that Prospero’s list of towers, palaces, and temples “sound[s] like an inventory of properties for recent pageants and masques. How fitting that he should recall them,” Bergeron continues, “fixed as they must be in Jacobean theatrical imagination” (206) [“The Politics and Technology of Spectacle in the Late Plays,” in Richard Dutton and Jean E. Howard, eds. A Companion to Shakespeare’s Works, vol. 4, The Poems, Problem Comedies, Late Plays (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing Ltd., 2003) 194–215]. See Daniel Vitkus’s essay in the same volume for a reading of Prospero as a figure whose authority is maintained in ways reminiscent of the contracts that bound players to companies (“ ‘Meaner Ministers’: Mastery, Bondage, and Theatrical Labor in The Tempest ” 408–26). See also Douglas Bruster, “Local Tempest: Shakespeare and the Work of the Early Modern Playhouse” Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies (1995) 25:1. 33–53. For a reading of these lines in relation to the sexuality of staging, see Nora Johnson, “Body and Spirit, Stage and Sexuality in The Tempest ” ELH 64 (1997) 683–701. 7 Association with Shakespeare’s Prospero would, of course, be anathema to Jonson, who implied his strong contempt for Shakespearean romance generally and for The Tempest in particular. The Induction to Bartholomew Fair, for instance, establishes Jonson’s authorial eminence by way of direct critique both of Shakespeare and of the spectacular in the theater: “If there be never a servant-monster i’ the

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alike.8 Indeed, Jeffrey Masten’s half-playful suggestion that Prospero stands for Jonson, essentially colonizing the early modern stage for the modern author, will be deeply influential in the pages that follow.9 The present study, however, will concentrate not upon the historical novelty of these figures—not upon their status as harbingers of the modern—but upon their continuity with the past. Though surely a narrative that describes dramatic authorship as an emergent form, profoundly implicated in proto-capitalist forms of individualism and ownership, can tell us much, our rush to describe modernity costs us dearly to the extent that it flattens out our descriptions of the past. Rather than search out the glimmering horizons of the modern, this essay will focus on a relatively banal figure who stands in the background behind Prospero: the tried-and-true crowd-pleasing magician figure of early modern drama, trotted out by Peele, Greene, Marlowe, and others, as well as by Munday, and trotted out again by Shakespeare in The Tempest.10 In fact, lending weight to the power of particular descriptions rather than sweeping historical narratives, this essay will focus narrowly on a single magician play, Anthony Munday’s John a Kent and John a Cumber. Written some twenty years before The Tempest by a hack writer—Jonson called him “Antonio Fair, who can help it? he says; nor a nest of antics? He is loth to make nature afraid in his plays, like those that beget Tales, Tempests, and such-like drolleries, to mix his head with other men’s heels, let the concupiscence of jigs and dances reign as strong as it will amongst you” [ed. Eugene M. Waith, in The Yale Ben Jonson, ed. Alvin B. Kernan and Richard B. Young (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1963) lines 113–18]. See also Barbara Traister on Jonson’s debunking of magic and his subordination of it to the power of the poet [Heavenly Necromancers: The Magician in English Renaissance Drama (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1984) 163–7]. 8 See, for instance, Kurt Tetzeli von Rosador, who traces a “half-latent, halfovert rivalry between the royal magic of the monarchy and the magician’s art and its representation in Elizabethan times and drama” [“The Power of Magic: From Endimion to The Tempest ” Shakespeare Survey 43 (1991) 1–13] 2. 9 Masten rejects this reading, of course, in the interests of understanding the play as “registering—in a way that is neither coherent allegory nor decipherable intention—a number of the tensions and places of fracture in the new discourse of author/ity only beginning to emerge within the theatre” (112). Nor should the current study be understood as embracing an allegorical or intentional reading. I do, however, recognize forms of authority grounded in performance that have a long history on stage, rather than seeing the figure of the author as essentially an import from outside the theater. Jeffrey Masten, Textual Intercourse: Collaboration, Authorship, and Sexualities in Renaissance Drama (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). See especially chapter 3, “Representing Authority: Patriarchalism, Absolutism, and the Author On Stage” 63–112. 10 Barbara Traister outlines the traditions of magical representation on stage in this period (Heavenly Necromancers, esp. chapter two, “The Magician in Minor Tudor and Stuart Drama,” 33–64).

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Balladino”—Munday’s play provides a rich and intriguing prehistory for Shakespeare’s work and for Jonson’s self-constructions.11 Rather than linking Prospero and Jonson as Masten does, through their shared task of representing the future of authorship, this essay will offer its own, possibly mischievous, suggestion: that Shakespeare constructed his author-ruler out of the ordinary tools of the popular theatrical tradition, and that Jonson, too, owes some of his ideas about sovereignty to the run-of-the-mill entertainments of the early modern stage. When Jonson proclaims his superiority to actors, audiences, scenery, patrons and peers, in other words, he is not simply resonating with the logic of absolutism. He is also basing this performance upon something he saw in the theater: if not the literal magic display scripted by Munday, then a thousand other moments of spectacular authority negotiated with candid pleasure in the theatrical milieu. The fantasy of controlling spectacle is a deeply theatrical one, even if the material circumstances of playing would seem inimical to its construction. The candid pleasure of negotiation, moreover, constitutes a shared heritage for Prospero and Jonson that works to undercut their assumptions of sovereign authority. In some ways, reading John a Kent and John a Cumber as a pre-text for the innovations of Jonson or Prospero might yield precisely the narrative of emergence that this essay is meant to work against. Even a brief sketch of the plot reveals a profound concern with Kent’s ability to triumph over competitors and patrons while producing supremely enjoyable theatrical shows. The play begins with Sir Griffin Meriddock and Jeffrey Lord Powesse grieving because their beloveds

11 See Robert R. Reed, Jr., on the relations between The Tempest and Munday’s play [“The Probable Origin of Ariel,” Shakespeare Quarterly 11:1 (Winter, 1960) 61–5]. For additional connections between The Tempest and Munday’s work, see Gary Schmidgall, “The Tempest and Primaleon: A New Source,” Shakespeare Quarterly 37:4 (Winter, 1986) 423–39. See Helen Moore regarding the likely association between Munday and Jonson as writers for Henslowe and as writers of pageants: “Jonson’s satire against Munday is directed . . . at his motivation (to please the masses), his system of patronage (indiscriminate), his subject matter and style (hackneyed) and his popularity (considerable)” (152). Moore also suggests that one of the things Jonson disliked most about Munday was his influence on other writers (“Jonson, Dekker, and the Discourse of Chivalry,” Medieval and Renaissance Drama in England 12 (1999) 121–65. See esp. 148–52). As Tracey Hill points out, “‘Hackdom’ has become a kind of prison both for Munday and for critics: the common assumption is that we do not have to explore the works of a writer such as Munday because we already ‘know’ what they are like—they are not worth exploring” [Anthony Munday and Civic Culture: Theatre, History and Power in Early Modern London 1580–1633 (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2004) 2].

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Sidanen and Marian are affianced to Morton and Pembroke, respectively, at the insistence of the women’s fathers. Sir Gosselin Denvyle offers them the assistance of the great magician John a Kent, who is bound to him by an unspecified relationship of patronage. Kent is easily able to deliver the women, but feels unsatisfied that the task has been completed with so little effort. Morton and Pembroke enlist the aid of a competing magician, John a Cumber, who is able to deceive the Denvyle party and capture the women back. Having been defeated, Kent nevertheless asks Cumber to give him another chance, which Cumber grants out of what can only be described as an excess of sportsmanship. In this round of the contest, the two magicians battle through plots and counterplots that hinge on the use of spirit actors, much like Prospero’s. Badly defeated by Kent and sorely humiliated, Cumber persuades Kent to give the women back and let him try again. At least initially, the lovers consent to this bizarre request; apparently they are more invested in the fun magic shows at this point in the play than they are in their own marriages. When Griffin does manage to register an objection after the fact, is it surprisingly mild: would any man but you have beene so fond to yeeld the Ladyes, when we might have kept them? poor soules, with what unwillingness they went, pray God this rashness all we not repent.12

The ladies, like the men, had in fact said nothing but “we doo” en masse when asked whether they accepted the terms of the latest Kent and Cumber contest. Kent, and the play as a whole, offer virtually no explanation for the strange sidetracking of the play’s love plot: ffeare you, hope you, for my parte, Ile doo neither, but track his steppes that treades the way before, to doo the thing he can undoo no more. (1532–4)

Though the final pages of the manuscript are badly damaged, it appears that Kent triumphs again, causing a great mist to surround the abbey where the women are waiting to be married, so that Cumber mistakenly admits Griffin and Powesse to the ceremony 12 Arthur Emmet Pennell, An Edition of Anthony Munday’s John a Kent and John a Cumber (University Microfilms, Ann Arbor, Michigan, 1958) 1520–23. Further references to Munday’s play are to this edition, and through line numbers appear parenthetically within the text. I have silently modernized u/v and i/j throughout.

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instead of Morton and Pembroke. Of course the point here is to establish Kent’s dominance, to tie the play’s candidly excessive fondness for magic display to the cultivation of the Kent mystique; “If this [the final conquering of the brides] I doo not ere two hourse be spent,” says John, neatly conflating the time of the play with the time of the audience, “Never let me be calld more John a Kent” (1568–9). Locating the play’s spectacular pleasures in one controlling figure does in fact involve a systematic deployment of some forms of personal authority that are hallmarks of Jonson’s career. As for Jonson, patrons are handy suppliers of legitimacy for John a Kent and John a Cumber, but only the abjected characters in Munday’s play are really subject to their influence. As part of the (ultimately thwarted) marriage celebrations, for instance, the Morton/ Pembroke party is entertained by a troupe of “clowns,” strongly reminiscent of the “rude mechanicals” in Midsummer Night’s Dream.13 If in serving their patrons the magicians perform a romantic comedy, the clowns enact the rituals of patronage as farce. In a display of idiocy that is profoundly connected to the play’s larger concerns, the rustics are able only to act out the names of Morton and Pembroke using the coarsest of semiotic systems. “Morton” is represented by a Moor carrying a tun, “Pembroke” by a pen in water. This the rustics perform only after we have seen them vie with one another, in what seems a parody of the Kent and Cumber contest, for the position of star performer. Though Turnop wins, Hugh the Sexton is suggested because Sexton is “an office of retoritie” (344). If Kent’s mastery of representation allows him a certain distance from the needs of his employers, surely the clown-players, looking for their own rhetorical authority, strengthen the suggestion that real theatrical power—Kent’s kind—involves some mysterious ability to transcend the economic relations that underlie theatrical production. Their failure to go beyond uttering the names of the nearest aristocrats is met by a decisive humiliation, as the lords’ putatively gracious response falls far short of the clowns’ expectations: Oswen:

My Lordes, my father’s tennants, after their homely guyse, Welcome ye with their countrey merriment: How bad so ere, yet must ye needs accept it.

13 See Note 20 below for a discussion of the likelihood that Munday’s play was written in the late 1580s. Midsummer Night’s Dream was written sometime in 1594–5 (Bevington, Complete Works, 147).

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The lords depart, leaving Turnop to call after them, “Before you go, in name of all this trayne,/Turnop accepts your golde, and thankes you for your payne” (400–1). Barely able to hold the nobility’s attention long enough to thank them for their (apparently diffident) show of generosity, that is, Turnop and his crew represent the lowest possible form of the staging that Kent does so impressively. In the main plot, Kent makes the nobility do his bidding; in the clown performance Turnop and his peers have to be content with representing their patrons and escaping censure. As in Jonson’s career, that is, there are two shows being put on: one in which patrons can be used to advance the status of the author and one in which patronage is at least potentially a debilitating form of subjection.14 The crude materiality of the clowns’ performance here, however, “how bad so ere,” is more complicated than it might seem. The Moor/tun Pen/brook display is clearly designed to set the players up as low, bumbling stagers. But the central conceit is not in fact so very far away from what we might consider proper aristocratic spectacle. Ben Jonson himself, for instance, describes the following gem of concretization for the Haddington masque: “The scene to this masque was a high, steep, red cliff advancing itself into the clouds, figuring the place from whence (as I have been, not fabulously, informed) the honorable family of the Radcliffes first took their name (a clivo rubro).”15 The inspiration for the image comes apparently from the honorable history of the Radcliffes themselves, but Jonson’s insistence that his sources are “not fabulous” may betray some mild anxiety about the quality of that inspiration. Julian Yates has, similarly, detailed the complex cultural work done by the Harrington family’s impresa: a hare, with a ring, on a tun, atop the magnificent fountain that graced the estate at Kelston.16 Surely some of the humor in

14 See Joseph Loewenstein, Ben Jonson and Possessive Authorship, for a careful discussion of the ambivalence with which Jonson sought (and sought to control) patronage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002); see especially pp. 160–67. 15 Orgel, Ben Jonson, lines 20–23. 16 “Under the Sign of (A) Jax; or The Smell of History,” chapter three of Error, Misuse, Failure: Object Lessons from the English Renaissance (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003) 67–100; see especially p. 75.

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Munday’s scene must come from the inept delivery practiced by Turnop and his peers, but the fact that they wield representational tools no less inherently unsophisticated than Jonson’s suggests that a complex attitude toward material display obtains here. In this as in many other moments, contempt for the physical seems absolute, but at the same time, somehow, it seems merely tactical. When Cumber wins the first match with Kent, for instance, by disguising himself as Kent to lure the ladies back to Morton and Pembroke, Kent uses a language of shadow and substance to lessen the glory of Cumber’s conquest: “under my shaddowe [i.e. in disguise as me],” says John a Kent, “have you done all this,/much greater cunning had it been thine owne” (964–5). Apparently, material realities are to be preferred over illusions, and apparently the obviousness of this preference renders Cumber’s triumph so hollow that he consents to a rematch. But Cumber’s plan for the next round, Kent learns, is to put on a play, performed “by the shaddowes of the Lordes and Ladyes” to disgrace Kent (1015). If Cumber doesn’t seem to have learned the lessons of round one (substances are better than shadows), neither does John a Kent; “But his intent to deal with shaddowes only,” muses Kent, “I meane to alter, weele have the substances” (1090–91). This time, though, “having the substance” turns out to mean “disguising myself as John a Cumber,” which is how Kent triumphs in round two. This strategy is of course the opposite of the one practiced by Kent initially, when he ridiculed Cumber for disguising himself as Kent. In the exchange that follows, Cumber-disguised-as-Kent plots to humiliate the real Kent by deploying spirit actors in the roles of Morton, Pembroke, and their allies. The real Kent foils this plan by disguising himself as Cumber, employing the real Morton and Pembroke to humiliate Cumber-disguised-as-Kent, whom they believe to be the actual Kent. The Morton/Pembroke ally Llwellen sums up the strategy perfectly when he responds to Cumber’s expression of shock: Cumber. how now? whats this? my shaddowes taught to speak, that to my face, they should unto my foe? Llwellen. Shaddowes proove substance, John, thou art too weak, then like a sillie fellowe, pack and goe. (1277–80).

Alas for Llwellen. His confident boast over “Kent” is actually his own humiliation, since “Kent” here is really Cumber-disguised-asKent. Both Llwellen and Cumber are trapped and defeated by Kent’s

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confusing deployment of both shadow and substance. At virtually every turn, in fact, John a Kent manages to establish that the real is superior to the illusory, and yet we are never sure what the real or the physical might be. Is an actor in disguise real, or does he only become real in relation to an actor “dressed” as a spirit-actor? As if to confess this confusion, Kent enters the final round of tricks with a determination to be done once and for all with child’s play: “Tu<sh> weele no shapes, nor none of these disguysings,/they ofore serv’d bothe his turne and myne” (1558–9; emphasis added). Disguises and illusions are decidedly inferior to reality (or at least to a stage-play reality). Having eschewed them, however, Kent adopts what everyone recognizes to be the lowest form of magic illusion, causing a heavy mist to confuse John a Cumber. Kent himself confesses that this is a cheap trick: O rare Magitian that hast not the power, to beat asyde a sillie dazeling mist, which a mere abce scholler in the arte, can doo it with the least facillitie. (1612–15)

In a wonderfully ironic triumph of the material, the manuscript of the play becomes virtually unreadable at this point, allowing us only a hint about John a Cumber’s dismay: “Alas, alas, hath cunning John e. And since so good a subject they present, uppon these loovers practise thou thy wit.

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nora johnson help, hinder, give, take back, turne, overturne, deceive, bestowe, breed pleasure, discontent. yet comickly conclude, like John a Kent. (130–36)

Kent constructs himself by rejecting comic form (“loove and loove”), but he does so in the name of another comic pleasure, the hindrance. Playing one audience expectation off another, the romantic conclusion off the comic delay, Kent manages to imply that he is achieving something like artistic autonomy. Distancing himself from the desires of his patron Denvyle as Jonson implicitly distanced himself from a career’s worth of patrons, Kent comes remarkably close to admitting that he has substituted the play’s paying audience for his fictional aristocratic employer.17 And yet he presents this trading of patronage for paying audiences as a triumphant act of self-display. Speaking for and even anticipating the audience’s desires, Kent will somehow become comedy, concluding comedy as a way of concluding himself. Locating the pleasure of the play in himself, that is, Kent makes his connection to the audience seem as though it is also a singular form of self-declaration. Such singularity in multiplicity is also characteristic of the match of wits between the play’s two magicians. As with the contest between shadow and substance, the distinction between Kent and Cumber is all-important even while it is subject to being forgotten. When Kent prepares the “silly mist” that will mark his final triumph (and thus, as we have seen, the completion of his self-construction), he worries aloud about what his actions will mean for John a Cumber’s reputation: And for the blame shall not relye alone, on poore John Cumber, when the faulte is spyed, albeit his skill will be the lesse therby: The Prince Llwellen, and the Earle of Chester, shall bothe be by, and graunt as much as he. (1561–5)

As noted above, too, Cumber’s final words express some kind of interest in Kent’s stature: “Alas, alas, hath cunning John